


Town Without Pity

by likethechesspiece



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: 1940s, AU, F/F, also nate is here but ick right, he's the baddie i guess, helena is a goddess, myka is a nerd, so same same yeah, they're meant to be ok kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-10-24 21:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 155,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17712251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethechesspiece/pseuds/likethechesspiece
Summary: The bookkeeper. The mobster's girl. The romance that was meant to be.1940s Chicago, and Myka Bering has a life for herself that she's proud of. Still, for all the romance novels she sells in her bookstore, she is yet to live one as great to tell as those. She's known love, long ago, but not the kind that would make life brighter, more daring, exceptional and compelling.Until, that is, the cold October day when a mysterious woman wanders in out of the wind and touches her hand, her life forever changed.~ ~ ~ ~Myka is a nerd - always. Helena is a woman with a plan that lets no one in. Except Myka - always.





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Two things:
> 
> Firstly, I got the idea for this story from (ew) my work place because there was a mug there with an image on it: a woman with dark hair in a long red dress that hugged her figure, holding a champagne glass and I thought to myself, "hey that could be Myka." So I stole the mug and wrote my heart out.
> 
>  
> 
> Secondly, I love Gene Pitney and so the title is one of his songs for there is a line in it that I feel. When I heard it and was thinking of this story, I put it together and so my little story fell into place.
> 
>  
> 
> Now, I hope you all enjoy this not-so-little story I've put together over the last half year or so. I will be updating with a new chapter every Saturday (Australia time) so please, please, please, let me know what you are thinking as we progress through it. Much love x

**June 1947**

Standing at the bar, a glass of champagne in her hand, Myka waited. Champagne was not really her speed, but the location and clientele practically demanded it. A back-alley club for dancing, late night rendezvous, and sinning, Myka felt that her backless dress revealed more than enough skin for any woman of the nineteen-forties, and yet there were girls at the club who were wearing far less than she. On the outside, she was calm; everything that these other women were in silence until their partners – dance, in-crime, or otherwise – sidled up beside them. A subtle sip from her glass every now and then, a soft glance around the room, pausing to take in the sight of the performers on the stage, singing big of love and desire. On the inside, however, she was grinding her teeth behind blood-red lips, taking shallow breaths as her heart began to race faster and faster for every moment that the stool presented empty next to her. She was waiting, and it might as well have been torture.

The lights were dim, the audience’s mellow applause faded out and was met at the end with the soft tapping of drums on the stage beginning again. Soft saxophone, deep vocals, the gentle shuffle of lovers’ feet on the dance floor, and all she could focus on was the severe absence of the scent of apples and fudge in her nostrils. And of course, no one would recognise her; she was not anyone, she was invisible, and had only ever been to the bar a few times before, frequently with her tweed skirt and blazer, hair pinned back but dishevelled, and her far-too-large glasses obstructing whatever defining features of her face she may possess. Tonight, however, she was a complete other woman: a woman with a secret.

A gust of wind spiralled in as the front door opened, and patrons by it mumbled slightly upset about the warmth of that wind. Chicago never did let up on its name, but of late, the Windy City was being bothered by the month-too-early heat of summer. June had only just begun, but it was proving to be the warmest one yet. Others were grumbling, and Myka joined them in their frowns, but she was not upset about the same thing. The door had opened far too many times that evening, and every time a person walked through it whom Myka wasn’t waiting for, her frown deepened.

Almost as if the door opening for the umpteenth time to reveal the wrong person had been her plan, a woman cleared her throat as she began her decent of the old and mystic staircase, her heels sounding with each resonant tap that she was there, instead of at the front door. Myka heard the footsteps and turned to see her, the woman, the object of her affection: Helena Wells, charm extraordinaire. Helena Wells, a woman whose nimble fingers lent themselves quite naturally to any invention, contraption, or woman they set their desires on. Helena Wells, mistress of the infamous Nathaniel MacPherson.

Now, to any simple shop owner like Myka may have been if Helena had not entered her life, Mr MacPherson may have only been known to Chicago as a businessman, and a rather good one at that. There was never a deal that the man couldn’t land. But Myka had met Helena, and she already did have an affinity for finding out business that she really shouldn’t know, and so she knew who Nathaniel MacPherson really was: a mobster, and Helena was his girl. He had a wife and a daughter, but Helena was charismatic in a way that would only prove to be beneficial to him in more ways than his wife could ever offer.

Helena was the mistress to a mob boss, Myka was the simple owner of a tiny bookstore who read more than any good girl should, her mother would tell her, and together, they had fallen in love and were playing with not only fire, but the fire power of MacPherson’s treasured six-barrel pistol.

~~~~

**October 1946**

The season was in full swing. Snow had not yet begun to fall in the early mornings, but frost was there, settling over the fallen leaves of Autumn, which left a nice blanket on Myka’s front step. She’d step over it and stand back a bit, into the street, so that she could take in the almost photographable perfection of it. Her bottle-green door, with an old rustic door-knocker, complete with a welcome mat of freshly fallen orange and red leaves. She would smile and raise her shoulders in childish joy, bringing her woollen scarf up around her ears and cheeks.

The young woman did not have a husband or a child, a thriving business or a fancy car, not even a holiday to look forward to, but she did have a nice front door that led to the small apartment up above her bookshop. Two steps to the left and she was standing at her store’s front door. A simple wooden door that would need another coat of varnish come spring, with a foggy glass partition to see inside with. She drew a love heart on it and jostled her keys in the lock before it swung open.

A slight chill met her flushed cheeks, and so she quickly made her way to the rear of the store, past her parallel and perpendicular aisles, and began stoking the fire. She was glad to have a fireplace, and to keep it stoked most of the day, for it would keep the store warm and inviting. The flue that travelled up behind the wall of her tiny little entrance landing upstairs would also warm her apartment sufficiently as well. Come the end of the day, Myka would put out the fire, and head back home to the comfort of her apartment, so very nicely warmed up during the day.

But for the morning ahead of her, Myka was sure that she’d need to stoke the fire as well as she could to last the first few hours by itself; Halloween was around the corner, and when little old ladies were not greeting festive children at the door with candy, they were wanting to curl up by their own fires to read the latest crime novel. She prodded at the fire until the flame took hold, and willed it to catch alight, wriggling the little sticks around at the bottom. She only slightly burnt her fingertips when she put another log on, as was usual, but this time she didn’t seem to care like most other mornings.

She turned and made her way to the little counter she had set up along the wall; half way between the front door and the fire, cornered nicely by her little storeroom. She reached underneath it and pulled out the parcel that had arrived the afternoon before just as she was closing shop for the day. Its weight suddenly required her to release her slightly reddened fingertips from her mouth and to support it from beneath. Carrying it to the front of her shop, she set it down on a little desk in a space she had provided amongst previous novels by the same author. Unwrapping the brown paper and string, she pulled out copy after copy with a smile, setting them up in the space until they were all there.

She stood back, crumpling the paper loudly in her hands until it was a more manageable sized ball, and beamed. She so very much loved Agatha Christie novels, for all their wacky plots and ingenious deduction, and so to have the latest of the Poirot novels, _The Hollow_ , finally in her store was a complete and utter joy. The little old ladies would simply love it!

As would the literature students of the neighbouring schools and universities, the mothers who needed a new book to fall asleep with after a long day, or even the lonely school kids who loved a good story over tiresome fake friendships. She was one of those a lot of the time in school. The one person she knew who probably wouldn’t exactly enjoy _The Hollow_ but would rather enjoy more how excited Myka was about finally stocking it, was her best friend and constant annoyance, Pete Lattimer. They had met in college, when she was more than happy to carry along with being the bookworm of the campus, just like she had been in primary and secondary education back in Colorado. But somehow, and she would never really understand why, he saw her when others didn’t. She supposed she was tall and had good teeth, and therefore whatever smile she did offer him simply made him swoon, even though he would never admit that that was true.

Instead, he would forever stick to the story that he needed a tutor, and she needed a laugh, and so they found each other. Pete was part of the college football team, and his good friend Kurt was the captain. Both were there on a full scholarship, and while Kurt was finding the girls and good grades far too easy to get, Pete had stumbled into weekend-that-turned-into-weekday drinking, which was greatly affecting his grades. Of course, everyone knew the local bookworm, and would joke about how she was never not studying something, but it had dawned on Pete that someone so smart and keen on getting the best grades possible was what he needed to keep him in school.

So, an arrangement had been met: in exchange for getting a tutor to help with his studies and assignments, Pete would set Myka up on a date with none other than local sporting hero, Kurt Smoller. Myka didn’t argue, as it really allowed her more time to go over her own notes and study, and assumed that her parents would be glad that she was “trying to find a nice boy to settle down with.” Come the end of semester, both had passed with flying colours, Myka had gone on a date or two with Kurt and found him completely insufferable, Pete had thought this was hilarious and that Myka was now his favourite person, and so they were both, oddly, happily friends.

A few years had passed, and both were living in the heart of Chicago. Pete was a coach at his old high school, finding that his connection with kids was a better subject to occupy his time with than pursuing any career in the sport which offered him more spare time to drink, and Myka had bought a little bookshop with an apartment attached. It was a little place, both the store and the home, and it was a little dream, but it was hers. Her younger sister was now the one of focus and praise by her parents, and so her little life in Chicago with not even a dog, but a Pete instead, made no one in the family especially proud. Except her.

She smiled even wider at the dozen copies of _The Hollow_ , and then turned to flip the sign around on her door to say ‘open.’ She walked back to her desk, with her happy ball of brown paper, pushed it into the bin and grabbed out her almost old-looking copy of the latest Christie novel. She had had it for no more than a week and it was already tattered at the edges and had coffee stains throughout from late nights of reading instead of sleeping. It was enthralling enough; she always liked a good Poirot novel over a stand-alone, but nothing in her mind could compare to _Murder in Mesopotamia_.

Myka was now half way through her third reading of _The Hollow_ and she was still finding it as interesting as the first time. She would like to tell people that. “It continues to get better throughout,” she said to one customer after they stood by the display for a while. “I’m on my third read now!” and some – usually mothers with three mischievous children dancing around their feet – took it as bragging about having that much spare time, some joked about it being the reason that there was no ring on Myka’s finger – she’d laugh with them, but shrug it off just the same, but there were also the ones who smiled back at her in the same way that she did; with that smile in their eyes, and their fingers wrapping more tightly around the spine of the book. Those were her favourite kinds of customers.

Soon, with the wind picking up and the sun peaking out from behind clouds high in the sky, Myka would change from “good morning,” to “good afternoon,” while having a bite to eat of a sandwich that she’d bought from across the road. She very rarely closed the store for lunch, because the store was never so demanding of her that closing would be required, and so instead, she would sit behind her desk-cum-counter and read, or do some paperwork while she ate a salad or some leftover soup from dinner. Occasionally she’d have to let it sit to hop up and help a customer, but that was what she liked doing.

Pete liked helping his team become the best players that they could be, and Myka liked helping people find the right story for them. She believed that every novel, story, poem, essay was right in some way, and that it only needed the right person to come along and read it. Just as some customers asked for romance novels and not crime, Myka didn’t go for any mushy romance type stories, but could read all day about solving crimes, or if the story was right, about getting away with them.

Myka had always been fascinated by books, crimes, and crime novels. She supposed that she might’ve liked to become a police officer in another life, if women would one day be allowed to, but until then, she could dive into a story and pretend that she was living those fantasies. Her father had always kept many different books in his store and around the house, and she would read every single one that he allowed her to. Some were “too involved for little girls” he would say, but after dark she would tiptoe downstairs and read those books; science fiction, horror, and a few of Shakespeare’s historical plays. When she was old enough, she read them all in daylight and liked them much better, and now she sold all of those books in her own little store.

Her little store, simply named ‘Miss Bering’s Bookstore’ shelved hundreds upon hundreds of different books, and she had read them all. She labelled them all, and shelved them alphabetically, with the occasional self-written review slipped into the front cover on a piece of card. Her usual customers liked her very much, as she always knew what part of the novel they were referring to, and how to tease the end without giving too much away. Myka liked knowing it all, and then somehow keeping it all so simply in her head. Pete would joke that she had every book shelved in her brain as well, with every fact and every character name.

She supposed she did, in a way, for she never did forget anything. Even the things she would very much like to forget: the way her father used to yell at her for seemingly very little things, a nightmare never ending; the day she found out about her high school boyfriend’s death, and how she had ripped her new lavender cardigan when she had fallen over running home as she cried; the night Pete knocked on her door covered in cuts and bruises because he’d been in a car crash. She remembered that she had been reading late that night, Virginia Woolf’s _Mrs Dalloway_ , at the very time Pete had crashed. She never finished the novel, didn’t even take the bookmark out before closing it in her bottom drawer beside her bed and never reading it again. It was still there.

Never forgetting a thing meant that she very rarely stopped thinking about anything as well. What could she have done differently so that her father wouldn’t have yelled at her so much; could she have reasoned with Pete more, harder, for longer about not going out drinking again; even an unsolved murder case in the paper sometimes had her thinking for far too long. She had read all of Agatha Christie’s novels after all; maybe she could solve it?

Either way, she thought, she remembered, she dreamed, and where Pete was concerned, because he was pretty much the only person in her life that she felt genuinely cared for her, she loved.

~ ~ ~ ~

Afternoons were slower generally, until just after three o’clock when school was finished for the day, and kids would stop by on their way home for various reasons. Maybe it was their mother’s birthday coming up, or perhaps they were going away for the weekend and would need a new book to read while there, or more often the case, they were putting off going home to do homework. Any book was an interesting book to these kids, she found, that weren’t text books. “How did your biology test go this week, Nick?” she asked one boy, who was trying to hide from her behind his woollen cap.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t see me, miss,” was his answer, and she knew he hadn’t done as well as hoped.

“You are in my store, remember,” and the other kids would laugh. “I found biology difficult as well.”

“I should’ve studied more,” he hushed, but she caught it.

“Well, you will surely remember that for next time, won’t you?” and she was right, he knew it, but study was so boring and unwanted when it was for an unwanted subject. “But you have a literature assessment coming up, if I remember correctly?” and he nodded more enthusiastically. He would ace this one, she was sure, and patted his woollen head, moving off back to her counter while the children wandered around. She sat and watched them, waiting for the biggest child to arrive: Pete.

The school day was over, the kids had raced out the door, Pete had to collect his things and walk over to Myka’s through the throngs of families that caused traffic on the sidewalk. At just before half past three, most of the children would leave Myka’s store, save the few high-schoolers who regularly sat by the fire to actually study, and then there would be around five minutes before Pete arrived. She checked the store, telling those down the back that she would be back in a minute, “okay, Miss Bering,” and she would dash upstairs to get ready for Pete.

She often loved telling her mother about “getting ready for Pete,” laughing internally at how she would ultimately be unamused and let down by the prospect of almost twenty-seven-year-old Myka having a boyfriend, when it turned out that she was really only pouring a tall glass of milk for the man and grabbing a few cookies. Pete was most definitely not her boyfriend, but rather a little like a son of her own.

She’d be back at her counter before the tired coach stumbled in her front door, wiping his feet and slumping over to her. He’d drop his heavy bag from his shoulder, and almost immediately be changed into another person, that child inside of him, excited to have his afternoon tea. “Rough day?” she’d ask, and he’d nod behind a mouthful of chocolate chip.

“It always is this time of year,” he’d say before taking a swig of milk. Myka would smile and try not to giggle at the sight. “Getting colder, exams are starting; the boys just aren’t always up for it.”

“You’re a good coach though, Pete. I’m sure you inspire the very best out of them,” she assured as she patted his shoulder.

“And what about your day? I saw the new book display,” he said without looking up, a lilt in his voice that encouraged Myka to go full-bookworm for the next few minutes.

“Isn’t it gorgeous!” she practically squealed, getting up from behind the counter to go and check out her display again. Pete followed, carrying his glass with him, and smiling with his little milk-moustache. “I have sold a few already, which I’m very glad about. But a fair amount of people did stop to have a gander, so I’m sure that they will be back tomorrow or the next to buy it. It really is a good story.”

“I’m sure it is,” he said. Pete didn’t like reading much. It was too still for him, he would say. He liked to move around and work up a sweat. Myka reasoned that it was just as important to exercise the brain as it was the body, and Pete would say that they balanced each other out then.

He had tried to read a bit of whatever Myka suggested to him a few times, but it never really sat with him well. She hated to hear it, but it reaffirmed her theory in a way; Pete didn’t like reading, or _just reading_. Nothing in Myka’s store seemed to excite that part of his mind, but when he wasn’t coaching or playing a game of friendly football at the park, when the day was over, and his mind was still buzzing, he did like to read comic books. The adventures of Superman, Aquaman or Batman were fascinating to him, and Myka would often listen, just to hear the crime plots and how they were foiled by our valiant heroes. Then she would pat his shoulder and go back to her Shakespeare.

“Do you ever read anything but crime, Mykes?” he asked, heading back to the counter to sit and finish his cookies. “No romance? Amanda loves romance. Jane Austen is her favourite, you remember?” and Myka did remember, for she helped Pete pick out a book for his girlfriend on her last birthday because he forgot.

“Not really my thing,” she simply said. “Not that romance as a concept in real life isn’t my thing. I want romance. I want love, and happiness. But just not in a book.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t find it as compelling.”

“Maybe once you have a great love, you’ll want to read it more passionately,” he suggested.

“More... _passionately_ , Mr Lattimer?”

“I said what I said,” and Myka laughed. Maybe he was right. Maybe they both were. Maybe what Myka needed, and quite possibly wanted, was to live a great romance that was as compelling and heart-stopping as her crime books. Her books were magical, sensational, home, but maybe she needed a great _something_ to help her realise that just dreaming isn’t exactly living.

The afternoon was quiet then, perhaps the odd customer stopping in more likely to simply get warm, but it was good. This was the time of day that Myka checked her shelves, tidied them, and tallied up what she had sold. It would soon get slow for a few weeks, but then pick up again before Christmas, and those days would be long and cold. She was doing well, and if she was a man, her parents would be so proud of her for running a more and more successful business, but for now to them it came off as a little hobby. Hobby or not, she was doing well, and she was proud of herself. She’d run facts and figures of the day with Pete then, too, and he was proud of her as well.

Just before four o’clock the last of the studiers made their way out, thanking her and wishing her a pleasant evening with her books. She knew they were possibly joking, because Pete would receive wishes of a good evening with his _girlfriend_ instead, but she thought that the joke was on them, for she would absolutely be having a good evening with her books.

It was good that the children were leaving when they did, as the clouds were coming over more thickly, and while that would offer a warmer night, for now it meant more wind and possibly some icy rain to chase them all home. Pete moved to the back of the store, jostling the firewood until the last of the flame snuffed out, and the embers slowly cooled, before walking around to turn all the little lamps off. Myka liked that he helped close up in the afternoon but wouldn’t pay him anything extra... just cookies and milk.

While Pete was doing that, Myka walked to the front door to flip the sign again, to ‘closed’ this time. She paused after doing so, the thin cardboard swinging around a little on its chain, and she looked up to what of the sky she could see. It was grey, and she could hear the whistle of the wind making its way under her bottle-green door beside her. It was afternoons like these that she was glad she did not have to walk home like poor Pete would have to. If it began to rain in the next five minutes, she’d invite him up to hers to wait until it passed, but she was unsure if the weather would really set in that quickly.

She could see men across the street in the long black coats, trying to battle against the wind with their umbrellas. It was futile, but from this side of the glass, it was also funny. She wiped away at the foggy glass, trying to get a better view of the scene: man against nature. The sky and the street were simply breath-taking, with their classic painting-esque aura. The dark greys, blacks, playing against stark white, and the soft hues of fallen leaves; she turned her back on it so quickly in hopes of finishing up the day and making it upstairs to see it all before the rain washed it away.

But then there was a knock at the door, and it was opening, even though, Myka’s slight frown said, that the ‘closed’ sign was clearly visible. She took a step back to the door, intent on apologising and turning the person away; it was cold now, and dark, and the weather was surely to only grow worse and she did not want to keep Pete from returning home as swiftly as was possible, but then they were in and the door was closed behind them.

They stepped in further, and Myka looked down at her feet with that same frown where a few leaves had blown in, not at all interested in who this person was and, frankly, what they wanted. She was tired, as was Pete somewhere in the store, but she wasn’t rude. She bent down to pick up the leaves, piling them atop each other like notepaper, and stood back up to speak, and then she saw her.

She had on a long black coat of her own, but this one was embellished with golden buttons – probably real – and a fur collar – definitely real. She had long dark hair, blown about by the wind, but tousled ever so attractively around her features; red lips, haunting eyes, pale skin and a striking jawline. She was a little shorter than Myka, but in that instant, the little bookkeeper felt two-foot-small. This mysterious woman, blown in from the weather, and possibly powerful enough to have brought it, Myka mused, was enthralling, mesmerizing, and – Myka hated that her mind conjured up this word of all words – rather compelling.

The door was closed behind her, the room was silent, too silent, not even Pete’s humming could be heard, and all that was there was Myka, the dim lamplight, and this woman. She had no idea what had come over her, and was sure that she was staring, _had_ been staring for far too long now, and she knew that she had to say something now. She nervously pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and said, “we’re closed.”

~ ~ ~ ~


	2. TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Helena is that annoying customer that ignores closed doors and 'closed' signs and enters anyway... but aren't we glad that she does?! Anyway, here is their first meeting and the real beginning of our story xo

“You’re frowning,” she said, and Myka shook her head a little in bemusement.

“What?”

“You’re frowning,” the woman repeated, and Myka caught her accent: English, proper, what many Agatha Christie characters sounded like in Myka’s head. “And I do apologise sincerely for barging in after you’ve closed. But you are the only shop on the street still occupied.”

“I... um... the weather,” Myka tried to say, but found herself failing. Miserably.

“Yes, it’s coming in rather strongly, and I had planned to walk home as the day seemed that it would hold up nicely, but...”

“It’s quite alright,” Myka said. She wasn’t sure why she’d said it and scratched a little nervously at the base of her neck, where a few curly strands had come loose over the course of the day. “Did you want to call a cab?” and she stepped around to head to the counter, looking back over her shoulder to the woman.

“I’ll actually call my driver, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“Not at all,” she said, and picked up the heavy telephone, bringing it closer to the woman. She looked up to the woman, and found her standing quite near her, smiling so sweetly at her that she decided that this wasn’t a bother at all. The woman bowed her head, almost bashfully, and Myka stepped away to give her some privacy.

Looking down at her feet, the woman’s voice was barely a blur in her ears as she found herself listening to her breath. She looked up to the woman out of the corner of her eye, and saw that she was already being watched, which only made her breath louder, her heart rate faster, her cheeks warmer. She smiled shyly, and took a step off to her left, not really knowing why, if only just to take her further into the store. She supposed, she decided, that she simply knew _him_ , when a moment later Pete was marching towards her. “Hey, M-“

“Shhh,” she commanded, raising her hands to get him to stop.

“What? Shhh,” he said for her this time, bringing his voice down. “Who’s that?” he asked, looking over her shoulder.

“I don’t know,” she answered without turning around, a little unnerved in that the woman may still be looking at her, watching her move around nervously, enjoying behind her sweet mouth that was talking to the man on the other end of the line, so much just watching the simple bookkeeper blush. “She just needed to use the phone.”

“Oh.” Pete nodded, and smiled up to the woman, who was indeed still watching Myka. She hung up a moment later.

“Thank you so much,” and Myka turned around to smile and say that it really was no problem, yet again. “My driver says he will be all but five minutes, if it’s alright that I stay until then?”

Myka opened her mouth to answer, but heard Pete’s voice instead of hers, and immediately shut her mouth and frowned up at him, for what reason, she really was not sure. “Of course, of course,” he kept repeating. “No need to have such a lovely lady standing on the cold street for too long.”

“Oh, you really are so very kind,” the woman said.

“Yes, Pete, you really are so kind,” Myka mocked, and her tone, although aimed at Pete and his favouritism towards tall, pretty girls, made the woman lose her smile and drop her shoulders.

“Are... you two married?”

“Oh, no,” Pete laughed.

“Ew,” Myka simply said, shaking her head, causing the man who was more like a brother to her feign offence. “He’s just my annoying friend.”

“Who is rather helpful to you?” he prodded.

“Pete helps me close up shop in the afternoon; comes around for milk and cookies after school,” Myka said, glad that her words were shooting holes in Pete’s manly persona.

“I coach at the local high school,” he clarified, trying to beef himself back up, but the woman hadn’t seemed to want to know more about that part of what Myka had said.

“So, this is your bookshop?” she asked, smiling at unmarried-to-Pete Myka.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, that’s very admirable. A woman in this era having her own store, and not being married to afford it?” and Myka nodded. “Well done, then,” the woman said and in Myka’s mind she imagined the little image of who was proud of her, and it had only ever consisted of her and Pete, but then... “Your parents must be proud.”

“Not really.”

“Well....” the woman paused, dipping her head a little to look up poignantly into Myka’s eyes. “Their mistake,” and there she was in Myka’s mind; this woman with an expensive coat, glistening eyes and kind, sweet, tender lips, who didn’t even have a name yet, but was proud of Myka just the same.

“What’s your name?”

“Helena Wells,” the woman said.

“Helena...” Pete’s voice hushed, and up until that moment, Myka had somewhat forgotten that Pete was still a part of this little awkward conversation.

“And yours?” Miss Wells asked.

“Myka Bering,” and she didn’t know why it was a quirk of hers when she anxiously had eyes on her, but she twitched her nose a little and then smiled into it.

“Miss Bering.”

“Miss Wells,” and they shared a smile.

“Pete Lattimer.” Myka rolled her eyes.

“Mr Lattimer,” Miss Wells smiled, nodding her head in introduction.

The air went quiet around them, and Myka could hear her heartbeat again, dulled and not racing manically in her chest, but rather beating to the rhythm of how Miss Wells’ eyelashes fluttered when she blinked. Suddenly, breaking through, a long car horn sounded, followed by two sharp ones, and Helena straightened her back.

“That’ll be my driver. Thank you, again, so much for allowing me to come in,” Miss Wells said, flicking her eyes between the two of them, but then settling just on the other woman, she continued: “I shall endeavour to be back, Miss Bering. It has been such a long time since I found a good book to enjoy.”

“Oh, then Mykes is your girl,” and both women looked up to him in confusion. “She knows exactly what book people want to read. She’ll help you find a good one, the perfect one,” and Myka smiled for the clarification.

Miss Wells turned with a smile and opened the door, battling for a second against the wind before looking up the street and crossing it to get to the silver Rolls Royce. A man got out before she reached it and opened the door for her, and then turned to give a thankful wave towards the bookshop before jumping back in and driving off.

Myka stood at the open door, the cold Chicago wind cutting through her like a knife, and yet she felt an odd sense of warmth in her. She didn’t know what it meant, what it was, or exactly why it was there, but before she could think too long on it, Pete was shoving her out the door so that she could close, and he could walk as swiftly home as his tired feet would carry him. “See you tomorrow!” he called, and she waved to his turned back. Keys gripped tightly in her bare hand, she jostled the door to prove that it was locked, and then stepped to the side to unlock her bottle-green door and slip inside.

She closed the door and leaned her back against it, looking up the dark staircase that lead to her apartment, and smiled, her nose twitching a little.

~ ~ ~ ~

The rest of the week went by as usual; new books arrived to be shelved, entire cases needed to be sorted – especially the children’s section where nothing was placed back to its original spot, the neighbourhood ladies came in on Wednesday morning to have their book club by the fire, and Pete stumbled in every afternoon with exhaustion on his forehead but would cheer up in an instant once seeing his tall glass of milk. It always made Myka smile. In a day as dreary as shelving, dusting, and re-shelving again, sometimes Pete’s presence was the only reason she truly smiled.

And now it was the last day of the week, and Myka had just woken up in her cosy bed but was yet to open her eyes. She could hear the wind from outside, the distinctive taps of heavy raindrops at her window that would turn into snow drops by the end of the month, and feel the coldness of her apartment on her nose. She scrunched it up and sniffled in, willing her eyes to open just a little when she relaxed her face again. She was laying on her back, the blankets and duvet wrapped around her so snuggly she could barely move her arms, but she did, of course, for if she didn’t she would surely fall back asleep in a matter of moments.

She pulled them out, loosening the hold of the covers around her, and stretched out her legs. She had socks on, but her feet could still feel the cold of the end of the bed. Her arms were out, free to feel the cold air, and she was awake. She folded them across her chest and atop the duvet, wriggling around a little to wake the rest of her body up. She arched her back and turned her neck from side to side, letting herself relax again when she was looking to her left, to the bedside table where her reading glasses sat.

“So big and obstructing,” her father had said when he first saw them. “No boy will ever see your face.” Not _beautiful face_ , or _lovely face_. Just face. Myka shrugged in her bed, and continued looking about her room; to her little kitchen, the table and four chairs that only ever sat Myka, books, and more books – maybe if Pete and Amanda came round for dinner, she’d move the books, but she was the one usually going to theirs – and her wall of _even_ more books. Yes, she did own the bookstore downstairs and therefore didn’t really have a need to store even more books in her own home, but these ones were personal ones. The first copies, or old copies, or presents that she had accumulated for herself over the years, that no one else was allowed to touch. She breathed out, knowing that she’d read all of those books too, but could go for a re-read of a few. Come the spring, she would need to get herself a few brand-new ones for reading in the park. She smiled and looked back to her bedside table, where her alarm clock sat, poised, ready to go off in ten minutes.

She had time to lie and laze this morning, which she liked if she had a book to read, or a Sunday breakfast to eat in bed, but because she was simply lying there, nothing to occupy her hands or mind with, it would be a dangerous ten minutes, especially while she was still looking at her bedside table. It was a Friday and she usually slept until her alarm. It was a Friday, and she could already hear the kids down the street causing trouble for their tired mother. It was a Friday and she could hear the cars taking off down the street, heading further into town where the lawyers, accountants, museum historians wore suits and frowned a lot. It was a Friday.

It was a Friday night when it had happened. She had been reading _Mrs Dalloway_ by Virginia Woolf, and although only a few chapters in, was enjoying it immensely. She’d started it the night before, and so in the morning had indeed gone to the local florist to get the flowers herself. She was engrossed in the words, turn of phrase, even the use of punctuation that carried a sentence’s meaning all the better, and then there was a knock. No, a bash, at the front door downstairs.

Myka would not at all go downstairs for anyone at such a late hour to open the door, no matter what the reason. She was not a fool to how men of the night could be. That did not mean that she wouldn’t slip out of her bed and tip toe to the window, tucking herself behind the curtains to peer down at who might be _bashing_ on her bottle-green front door so vehemently. It was so dark that she could not tell if she knew the person, only that it was a man, and his face was shadowed by some dark smudges. The lamp light was not helping much at all, but almost as if they knew she’d be watching – because of course, he did – he stepped back into the lamplight and looked up to her. Not just up to the window that had a slight glow emanating from it, but to her, because he knew where she would be standing.

Pete.

She frowned and took off, spinning around the top of her staircase and flying down to the door. She swung it open, and in came the cold air and fallen leaves, and Pete. He stumbled in; the dark smudges on his face were blood, and they were streaming down more than gravity would demand because they were joined by tears. She helped him upstairs, pulled out her chair at the table, and sat him down. He slumped, and she stepped back aghast to look down on this man that she knew, this always strong, always jovial man that was now a broken resemblance of him.

She knelt down, the cold wooden floorboards chilling her skin through her thin cotton pyjamas, and placed her hands on his tattered knees. “What happened?”

There was a long pause, and few long breaths to steady himself before he began, and then he did and didn’t stop until it was all out. “I crashed the car, Mykes. I was drinking,” _again,_ she thought. “And I said that I was fine to drive,” _again_. “But I wasn’t, and the car skidded and crashed.” He’d almost wrapped them, he and his good friend Dave, around a tree. He said that he had gotten out of the car and looked for Dave, finding him ahead of it with his legs broken. The police had come, and the ambulance and while Pete was let go, Dave was still at the hospital with his family. “I would’ve stayed, Mykes, but they kicked me out.”

“The nurses?”

“Dave’s family.” He was done then, not saying another word until morning, but of course, there was still so much to do before then. She stood up and turned to get her first aid kit, apologising quietly for every sting her disinfectant caused Pete’s grazes, but then he was cleaned and bandaged, looking like he’d only bumped his head, not been in a crash. She tucked him in atop her covers and piled her spare blankets over him so that he felt secure, and went to turn off the lights.

The last one to turn off was the lamp on her bedside table, where _Mrs Dalloway_ sat, face down on the page she had left it. She picked it up, dog-eared it on page fifty-six, opened the bottom drawer and placed it in gently. She closed it, turned off the lamp and crossed to sit on the couch to fall asleep, weeping until she did.

Myka continued to look at the bedside table, noting how she had not opened that bottom drawer since, not in nearly the year and a half since she locked it away, and found her hands growing sweaty as the urge to lean over and open it grew stronger. Then her alarm buzzed. She let it ring, so that it drowned out her thoughts of _Mrs Dalloway,_ and that awful Friday night, and every nervous phone call from Pete since because she did not love anything in this world as much as she loved her best friend, and could not, would not live without him.

The alarm buzzed and she decided that she did not need her usual fifteen minutes to wake up – she’d already had that – and so she slid out of bed, on the opposite side of the bedside table, and started her day. Those extra fifteen minutes would be used to get some flowers, she thought.

~ ~ ~ ~

Setting the lilies, fresh buds not yet ready to open, on the windowsill at the front of her shop, Myka smiled before she bent down to rub her legs. A thick coat did the job sufficiently in keeping her upper body, and even her upper legs warm, but her poor calves and shins were protected from the harsh wind by only thin stockings. Oh, how she envied Pete his fashion abilities in the form of long slacks or even denim trousers. Anything of the sort would be better than sheer stockings. She tried to buy the best she could afford; thicker and with more life in them, but her legs were always left cold in winter. Just once, she thought, she would like to wear a pair of pants and not be met with frowns from anyone she may pass.

Surely there were women out there that wore pants. She could only dream of owning pants deemed suitable. Until then, she had a fire to light, orders to prepare for customers to collect, and dusting. She always needed to dust; it was annoying, but a necessary part of the job for someone who stocked notorious dust-collectors. Sometimes a certain shelf wouldn’t be touched in a whole week, and so come Friday, it was in dire need of a clean. Hopefully by the time she had done all that she needed to do for the day, the store would be warm enough for her to forget needing to dream more about pants.

The junior biology shelf was the dirtiest, and she frowned knowingly. “Nick might’ve passed if he’d read you,” she said as she picked up each book to wipe over and under. Once all was as clean as it had been when it was all brand new, Myka sat down with her book at her desk just near enough the fire to stay warm but not get overheated and read the rest of it away.

The weather was abysmal, and every time she reached a new chapter, she looked out the window to the bare streets outside. Of course, there were still cars zooming past, splashing water from puddles up onto the pavement, but there were barely any people on those pavements, and the rain only seemed to be coming down faster and harder by the minute. No, Myka Bering’s little bookshop would not be getting many customers today. She might get a few people in for lunch, those who just need to leave their places of work for five minutes, and stop in to get lost in a book for even just a page. But other than those, it would be a quiet day until Pete arrived. There wouldn’t even be as many children in the afternoon either, because who wants to do homework on a Friday afternoon, when they could easily do it in a rush come Sunday night.

She smiled to herself, a sad sort of smile, because these few weeks before Christmas rush were always going to be slower, and she saved accordingly for that. So, she knew that she needed to find herself some books to re-read so that she kept herself entertained while they were here. She stood up and took herself around the store, running her fingertips down the spines until a colour caught her eye, or an indentation on a spine grabbed her attention. She ended back at her desk with a Shakespeare play, a book on Ancient Rome, and a little cookbook for meals to sustain oneself during the winter months.

She stared down at her little pile, and twitched her nose nervously because they were all her head and heart had wanted her to grab, and yet she still had a buzz about her that said there was one more. She couldn’t figure out what it was, the feeling holding onto her from behind like the feeling of forgetting what one was just about to do. She picked up each book, wondering if they were what was wrong, and when she finally picked up the Shakespeare, _All’s Well That Ends Well,_ the feeling settled in her as she remembered the lead female’s name. “Helena,” she said, and remembered the woman from earlier that week.

She had been so usually busy with her little shop and the lives of the people that came to and from it, that she had barely spared a second thought for the mysterious woman who vanished into a pricey silver Rolls Royce. She recalled their conversation, turning the play over in her hands, running her fingers along its spine, the summary on the back, Helena’s name. She put it down and turned around from her desk to face the books. The stands and shelves of hundreds of books, all shadowy and sweet to Myka’s eyes like that woman had been, and she remembered.

It was only hypothetical, she told herself, for she wasn’t entirely sure that it would ever happen, but should the woman pop back into her little store looking for such a perfect book, Myka would have it for her. She closed her eyes, trying to think of what Miss Wells might read, what author’s grabbed her attention and held it, what kinds of stories she might like, and it was all such a gamble based off a five minute encounter, but she decided that Miss Wells looked like the kind of person who would enjoy novels written by women, but nothing too romantic – no Jane Austen – and nothing too dark – the Brontës or Mary Shelley – but rather stories about women, written by women, that were most likely designed and written to be read, absorbed, enjoyed by women as well. And while there were quite a few good authors that Myka could think of off the top of her head, and knew exactly where they were in the store, she begrudgingly found her feet taking her to _W_.

“Virginia Woolf,” she said to herself, sorrowfully, like the woman herself had caused Myka pain, but of course that wasn’t the case. She didn’t pick up _Mrs Dalloway_ , and possibly never would unless a customer asked her to, but rather _Orlando_ to its right. She’d read the story more times than many others, owning her own tattered copy upstairs – it was one of those that her father had told her she wasn’t allowed to read, and was therefore one of the first she had ever bought herself – but knew in an instant that this was the book that she wanted Miss Wells to hypothetically read first.

A story of discovery, love, identity; she thought that Miss Wells had experienced all of those and would therefore enjoy the tale with those tropes of another. She carried it back to her desk, walking gingerly with it clutched to her chest, and slowly placed it down in the centre. She looked up at the window and the rain was lashing against it; no one was going to be coming in anytime soon. She stacked her own books to read on the floor beside her chair, before pulling out a sheet of crisp brown paper and a ball of string. She often gift-wrapped books if customers asked it of her, and so decided that _Orlando_ would be her gift to the mysterious woman, should she ever return.

~ ~ ~ ~

Lunch brought only a handful of people in, but she did manage to sell a book to most of them. Later in the day, Mrs Calder, head of the local women’s book club that met every Wednesday popped in to thank Myka for her book suggestions a few days earlier. She smiled and nodded, saying that it was essentially her job, and that she was glad to help. But then after that, it was a long couple of hours, just like in the morning, until a few studious school children arrived to study, followed half an hour later by Pete.

She could see him pulling faces at her through the window, because no one else was up this end of the store, and because he was an over-sized child. She tried to ignore him, not wanting to encourage him, but she let slip a little smile anyway and she could see out of the corner of her eye that he was victorious. She waved to him, and he waved back before walking to the door. He opened it and smiled, but not at Myka, and shifted his hold on the wooden door so that he may hold it open, presumably, for the person he was smiling at. “Pete? What are you doing?” Myka asked, getting up to cross to the door.

“Why, thank you Mr Lattimer,” Miss Wells said, blowing in like a welcome spring breeze after an atrocious winter.

“Miss Wells!” Myka exclaimed in surprise, trying with all her might to calm her excitement.

“Hello, Miss Bering! Don’t you look lovely,” and it was then that Myka remembered that the cold day had helped her into a fuzzy woollen sweater – a shade too brightly yellow for her to really wear outside of her apartment – instead of her matching tweed jacket to go with her skirt. Thank goodness her hair was still pinned up in a bun, lest Miss Wells think that she had simply wandered downstairs in her ‘at home’ look.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “It was too cold for a simple tweed jacket today.”

“I agree,” the Englishwoman said. “Woollen apparel was definitely required. And what about you, Mr Lattimer?” she began, turning to the man in denim pants. “Not too cold outside for your sporting heroes today?”

“Ah,” Pete laughed, tilting his head in... _what?_ Myka wondered. _Embarrassment?_ “We were in the gymnasium today. No need to worry about getting too cold.” Miss Wells nodded in understanding, smiling at the man. Myka looked between the two, and quirked her head ever so slightly, before she remembered the wrapped book on her desk.

“I have something for you, Miss Wells,” and she turned around to grab it before even knowing if she had the other woman’s attention. When she retrieved it and turned around, she saw that the other woman had in fact heard her and was stepping towards her. “I found you a book that I supposed you might like. Although, I do barely know you, and so I may be way off base with what I think you might enjoy and-“

“I’m sure I’ll enjoy it, Miss Bering,” she said softly, putting Myka out of her rambling misery. She then took off her black gloves, tucking them into the pocket of her coat, so slowly, so mesmerizingly, before taking the book from Myka, their fingertips almost touching. Myka wasn’t sure why she’d done that, and her nose twitched as she smiled at the woman, who eagerly smiled back.

Again, the moment could’ve lasted for a second, or forever, but either way, Pete’s voice broke in and both women seemed to breathe heavily out of it before turning their attention to the man. “Rain’s coming in.”

“Oh, please tell me you didn’t walk here again,” Myka pleaded, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

“No, no, dear. My driver is up the road at a café having a coffee. I told him I would only be a minute,” Miss Wells assured, and Myka’s shoulders relaxed evenly. “I had best be off then,” she said, and Pete made a face at Myka, wondering with that one look what the woman had even stopped by for. “Oh!” she said a minute later, and both friends smiled. “I came in to ask you if you had a specific book, but I’ll just save it for next time.”

“What book was it?”

“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by-“

“Lewis Carroll. I have it; two different editions.”

“Oh,” Miss Wells said. “Good, but I’ll still come early next week to have a look. I’m after a specific edition and cover, and I don’t have the time at the moment to stop and look.”

“Absolutely. I shall have them both ready for when you visit again,” Myka said with a nod. Miss Wells smiled brightly and seemed to sigh a breath of relief. She was gone a moment later, and Pete was into his milk and cookies, while Myka walked to the shelf that housed Alice, the echo of _next time_ blossoming in her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, come and squeal with me about these love birds, on here or over on tumblr @ sapphos-throne xo cheers!


	3. THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What does it mean when the writer blushes when they read their own story back? That they're vain? Probably. What can I say, I'm vain, but only because it's so easy to write these two idiots falling for each other!

_Early next week. Early next week,_ Myka’s mind would repeat, and her heart would beat. Miss Wells was to return early next week to have a look at the copies of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ that she had sitting on the shelf across the shop from her, then on her ‘to-shelve’ table, and then on her own desk. “Early next week,” she muttered to herself, on both Monday afternoon, and Tuesday morning when Pete had stumbled in with a sniffle and a red nose, asking for some of her soup that always made him feel better. He’d sat and swallowed difficultly, without breath due to his stuffed nose, and watched as Myka had moved the two editions that she housed from one side of her desk, to the other, then to swap the bottom to the top, and then back again ten minutes later. “Wednesday is not early next week, right?” she asked casually, but Pete had been watching her for long enough that morning to know that she was just a little bit nervous to see the elegant and poised Miss Wells, not that he could pin-point as to why.

“I would definitely say that Wednesday is the middle of the week.”

“Exactly. Right. Good,” and she sat down in her chair in an exhausted mess, slouching and breathing out a flustered sigh.

He stared at her. He had very rarely seen her like this, and never was it about a person. “Mykes?”

“Hmm?” she responded, her eyes glazed and yet focussed on the books in the very middle now of her desk.

“Why are you nervous?”

“She said she wants a specific edition of the book,” eyes still focussed on the books, as if she were trying to somehow telepathically read which one it was that Miss Wells was after.

“And so... what?”

“What if neither of these are it? I mean, of course, the likelihood is very slim that either of these would be it, as there have been quite a few editions printed in the nearly hundred years since the first, and I only have two, but-“

“But what if it’s neither?”

“Yes!”

“Myka!” Pete laughed, which sounded a little strained through a more nasal voice and the necessary sniffle every few seconds. “Are you really so worried about not having the _perfect_ book?”

“I am, Pete!” she exclaimed, finally taking her eyes from the two Alice’s in front of her to look at her friend. “It’s my job to have the perfect book for everyone, to make sure everyone is happy. I just...” and she paused, her eyes falling to her lap. “I just want Miss Wells to be happy with what I have.” Pete didn’t respond, not verbally at least, instead only quirking his head a little to the side as Myka sighed and stood up, needing to busy herself, her mind, with something else other than Alice and Miss Wells.

She went and dusted, telling Pete when it was safe to walk down the aisles she just cleaned, so that the dust had had ample time to settle before he scuffed his way through to the fire. When she met him down there, telling him to drink more water, she saw that he had stolen all the cushions from neighbouring couches and made himself a little nest, deeply enthralled by his latest copy of the Aquaman comic. She smiled, setting the glass of water down on the little table beside him. It was the time of year for colds, she noted, making sure to buy herself some extra oranges and strawberries on her walk for lunch.

When she returned to the street her bookshop sat on, she was met with the rare Chicago sun streaming down to warm her. She had to squint her eyes against the light and the cool wind that blew, but it felt good to be bathed in the sun for a moment, even if it wasn’t particularly warming. A few cars passed by her, blowing up leaves from the gutter, and when they passed, and the coast was clear, she stepped off onto the road and into the crunch of those leaves before crossing the street to her shop.

She’d locked the door behind her when she’d left, like she usually did, even though Pete was still there. She was sure that with the quiet store, a belly full of warm soup, he may have begun to fall asleep in front of the warm fire, and didn’t want the odd customer disturbing him. Now as she was approaching her door, and how the sun caught on the wood’s dryness at its bottom, she saw a person standing at it, with obvious intents to be let in. The person, with a long black coat, and a deep blue scarf, was stomping their feet ever so slightly on the front step, their arms folded around their chest in the cold shadows.

“Miss Wells?” she asked when she was nearer the door. The woman turned to greet her, a bright smile on her face, tucked in sweetly to the fuzzy scarf. “I’m so sorry that I wasn’t here to meet you!” she continued jostling her lunch and fruit around in her arms to find her keys deep in her own coat pockets.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Miss Bering,” the other woman said, reaching out in kindness to relieve Myka of the things she was carrying. Myka smiled warmly at her, seeing the clouds of their breaths mingle in between them. She fumbled with the key but eventually got her nervous fingers to work, and the door swung open. Both women shuffled in, shaking off the cold, before Myka closed the door and took back her things. “An awful lot of fruit you have here, Miss Bering?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not falling ill are you?” and Myka smiled at the hint of genuine worry on the English woman’s voice. “Oranges and strawberries for vitamin c, bananas for potassium…”

“No, not me. Pete has caught a cold and is probably asleep by the fire. These are preventative. Let me go and tend to him, and I will be right back,” Myka said, slipping away between the aisles, leaving Miss Wells to gaze about the bookstore that she had visited a few times now, but had never had a proper look at. The bookcases that were more than just run-of-the-mill shelves made of dark wood but were more likely antiques; with rustic detailing on the top and around its feet, each bookcase was finitely different, and only those who stopped to really look would notice.

She smiled, remembering her childhood home that had such fine details in the furniture. How so long ago it all seemed, and how many ordinary pieces of furniture she had owned since. The walls behind the shelves were interesting too, with bare sections covered by framed images of far-away cities, holding a certain shine and smile in the small corners of streets that seemed to be there for each and every person who came into the store looking for a book to help them escape. She turned, her eyes leading her about the room, and she saw one of London, a wistful and joyful rendition of the city, through the fog and rain; of the streets that lead to Big Ben, the Thames, the bridges that crossed it. She smiled, again remembering, but this time remembering the last time she ever saw those sights with her own, young eyes.

“He’s awake now,” Myka’s voice broke through, and if she had been by the fire and its hot embers than she could’ve blamed the tears in her eyes on them, and not the cursed memories that still reminded her of happier times, since lost or stolen from her. “Are you quite alright, Miss Wells?” and now it was Myka’s turn to have concern laced in her voice.

“Oh yes,” she assured, shaking her head and closing her eyes for a moment, if only to return herself to the present. “I was simply admiring your bookcases, and the lovely artwork,” she said pointing with her woollen-gloved hand to the picture of London. “They reminded me of old times.”

Myka smiled; she would not pry for she did not know Miss Wells at all beyond her kind smile and sincere disposition, but she was happy to have been shown this softness by her. “Does Alice remind you of old times?”

“She does,” and again, Myka appreciated the softness of the other woman.

“Well, I do hope that I can help you, but I know that out of the almost thirty editions printed since the original, I do only have two in my store.”

“Almost thirty, Miss Bering? You have done your homework,” Miss Wells said with a coy, and possibly cheeky smile. She removed her gloves and tucked them into the pockets of her coat, stepping toward the desk where Myka stood as she unwrapped her long scarf from around her neck.

“Less homework, and more... I’ve been brought up with books my entire life, and so I tend to know all these little facts just because I wanted to when I was ten,” and she really could have kept rambling if it wasn’t for the last un-looping of Miss Wells’ scarf that revealed her neck, so pearly and clean, and then down to the expanse of her décolletage and collarbones.

“Clever you,” and with a wink, Myka was blushing. _What is happening?_ she demanded of herself, never having known herself to result to such a girlish mess in her life, not even from a good book!

“I have these two,” she began, quickly turning the subject back to the books, picking them up from the very middle of her desk, like she had been planning her entire week around them – which she was, but only for the _early_ part of it – and held them out to Miss Wells, one in each hand. The other woman sighed a little, looking them over, and even reaching out to drag her poised fingertip along the hard edge of the cover, but never to take it fully from her hands.

“These aren’t it, I’m afraid,” and Myka’s heart fell. She almost dropped her arms in defeat as well, but remembered at the last second that she was still in fact holding rather rare editions of the story, and so caught herself. She turned and placed them back on her desk; not in a pile, not even neatly next to each other. They were placed down so haphazardly that even Miss Wells could see the disappointment wanting so desperately to show itself on Myka’s face.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you then,” Myka said, in her least defeated voice.

“Oh, Miss Bering, do not be down-heartened. It means so much to me that you would even try.”

“Of course, I’d try.”

“Well, yes. It is your job,” and Miss Wells shook it off with a soft laugh.

“But...” and Myka stopped herself, because she didn’t really know in herself why else she _was_ helping with such enthusiasm. She bit the inside of her cheek, nervously, and looked up into Miss Wells’ eyes, seeing her understanding, and then had an idea. “What was the edition like? Do you know if it was second, or even third edition, and what the cover was like?”

“Oh, no!” and Myka frowned at herself for daring to dream that Miss Wells would remember something so vividly from such a long time ago. “It was first edition, my dear Miss Bering,” and the shy bookkeeper’s eyes flashed up.

She blinked a few times, and then asked, “first edition, did you say?”

“Nothing but the best for the old Wells family,” Miss Wells beamed, and Myka smiled.

“Tell me more... what did the cover look like?”

“Well, when my great-grandfather bought it for my grandmother, I assume it was a very rich red colour, deep red, and that the gold embossing was crisp, but by the time it got into my hands and then...” she paused, but shook her head a little and continued. “It was a little ragged around the edges but it was still an original first edition, nonetheless. I can still remember how the little image of Alice in the very middle felt under my fingertips.”

Myka’s mind was racing; it had been ever since Miss Wells announced that the edition she was after was the _first_ , with a veritable checklist being ticked off in her head as each defining detail of the cover was mentioned. “Eighteen-sixty...five?”

“Yes,” Miss Wells said, with a hopeful smile playing at her lips as well, but Myka was already brushing past her and waving back to her as she spoke.

“Stay right there,” and Miss Wells was bemused as to what was happening, but she felt that she very well couldn’t stop the other woman who was so clearly on a mission, and so she let her. She let her open the door and spin around the corner so sharply to unlock her bottle-green door, then heard the door close and the sounds of heavy, running footsteps in the wall beside her as Myka was obviously bounding up them to her apartment, and then the scuffing of feet above her head, the stillness, the quiet, and then the complete reverse as those same footsteps flew downstairs again and the bookkeeper appeared at the shop’s front door, a rather similarly tattered book in her hand.

“Miss Bering?”

“Is this the book?” and she stepped forward, slowly, almost as if to personally torture Miss Wells, until she of course had to step forward as well and meet Myka half way. She held out her hands, and found the book, _the_ book being slipped into them. “Is this it?”

It was a deeper red than Miss Wells had remembered, but it had been a while since she’d seen it after all. The gold was richer than was on hers, but was somehow even more tattered, pages parting from themselves where old dog-ear folds had been. “How many times have you read it, Miss Bering?”

“Only a few,” she answered breathlessly, and Miss Wells looked up to her coyly again, sure that it was more than a simple few.

“This is it.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” They shared a quick glance and a smile, a moment of connection over something seemingly once lost, but now definitely found. Myka watched as Miss Wells turned the book over in her hand, almost unsure if it was real, slowly opened its cover, the first few pages using only the very tips of her fingers; it was all quite mesmerising to her. She had never seen another person take such delicate and invested care of books other than her. She could hear the faint, yet still crisp sounds of the pages turning, Miss Wells’ soft inhalation and then the pause between before she released her breath slowly, the soft scuff of her own feet as she edged closer, to simply look down upon the other woman scan the lines with her fingers, the distant cough of Pete, and then another, growing closer, and then another.

She broke herself from this trance, opening her eyes a little wide at herself in how she had gotten lost in it, and then found it so hard to pull away from, and turned to see Pete smiling dully at her. “Sleepy?”

“Your soup is magical,” he responded, and almost in the same beat, he perked up and changed his tone, back to the suave and charismatic man that Myka knew him to be when he wanted to. “Hello, Miss Wells. Fancy seeing you here.”

“I could say the same to you, Mr Lattimer,” Miss Wells retorted, gently closing the book in between her hands. “Not feeling well are we?”

“Comes from training in the winter weather, you see. Exposed to the elements; working yourself too hard; it was only inevitable that this would happen, you know... from working so hard just to help the boys become their best.”

“Mmhm,” and as Miss Wells turned her attention back to the other woman, Myka’s eyes were on Pete and how his expression changed to utter defeat in the presence of a simple ‘mmhm.’ She was rather impressed with Miss Wells, having found that her best friend’s boyish charms often rendered women in a bit of a trance themselves. Now, as she turned to face Miss Wells, she found that this woman seemed to have the power that Pete usually harboured, and that she was the young woman in a trance. “Miss Bering-“

“Myka,” she suddenly found herself saying.

“Myka...” a smile, a slow blink, and then Miss Wells looked back to the book in her hands, opening it to the front page again, and then slowly turning it to where the publication details sat. “This says that the book was published in eighteen-sixty- _six_ , not five. Do you know why?”

“Does she know why?” Pete muttered sarcastically, turning to wander the aisles again like he had all morning, intending to keep moving? Or simply to take himself away from a conversation that he would only be unnecessarily inserting himself into? Myka could only hope it was the latter, but it was most likely a combination of the both.

“Actually, I do. You see, publication in the United Kingdom was to be pushed back, and yet Mr Carroll wanted it to be published on time, and so the story was sent to New York to be published. Only two thousand copies were published in the United Kingdom, and that was in eighteen-sixty-five, but the set that was to be published in New York still came out after the original publication date anyway, in early eighteen-sixty-six.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Miss Wells asked, and Myka twitched her nose nervously, unable to think in that moment of anything at all, apart from various languages, but then again she did know a fair few just the same.

“Anyway, the only difference between the two thousand copies of the United Kingdom first edition, and the American copies, is the publication date stated on that page. Otherwise, they are completely alike,” a nod and a smile; she did very much like knowing things. “And I don’t know Italian.”

“Sorry?”

“As in the language. I don’t know _that_.”

“I see,” Miss Wells chuckled to herself.

“But I do know Latin.”

“Of course, you do,” and her chuckle developed into a laugh as she was continuously surprised by the humble Miss Bering.

Silence settled between them for a moment, and Myka could hear Pete a few aisles over humming to himself. Myka smiled about it, like she usually did, but then – as had been the case for much of the day, and very well, the week – her mind reverted back to Miss Wells in front of her, looking down at the cover of the book with a wave of emotions cast upon her face. Memories, Myka presumed, and wasn’t entirely sure what to do.

“I know that this is obviously your own copy...” Miss Wells began, in almost a whisper.

“My father gave it to me. And his father to him.”

“Might I come by again sometime to simply... read it?” and she looked up to Myka in such a way that her eyes were practically begging her.

“Of course, Miss Wells. I dare not ask what emotional attachment you have to the book, to Alice, but feel free to come around and read it whenever you like.” She stepped forward slightly, reaching up despite herself to place a hand on the other woman’s arm, speaking in a hushed voice almost as if she were uttering a secret. “I’ve honestly never seen another person care so much for a book before.”

“Another person?”

“I am just about the biggest book worm that’s ever lived, I’m sure,” Myka said, and was glad to hear a laugh come from Miss Wells again.

The book situation had been sorted, and Myka was glad to have finally helped Miss Wells. While this was usually the time that the woman of mystery would leave, she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for it today. It was quiet, Pete’s humming and the odd sniffle the only other existence in the store, and so she thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I wish I could, _Myka_ ,” she regretted, passing the woman her book, and enjoying the smile on her face at the sound of her first name, “but I have some shopping to do,” and Myka nodded, her head dropping lower just a little with each nod. Miss Wells could see her sadness at the fact, apparently, and decided to make a counter offer. “I do have this weekend to myself for a change, however, so perhaps you might like to take me to lunch?”

“Um...” Myka paused. _Take?_

“Shall I meet you outside your door, and we can go to any little café you like.”

“Oh,” and Myka felt her face both blush and light up unexpectedly. “I would like that very much, then.”

Helena nodded in return, her own face seeming to light up unexpectedly. “Well, I shall see you here...”

“Saturday at half-past-eleven?”

“Splendid. Have a lovely rest of your day then, Miss Bering.”

“And you, Miss Wells,” Myka returned, practically transfixed by the other woman’s gait towards the door.

“And do wish Mr Lattimer a speedy return to health,” and then she was gone, and Myka was left with a half-smile, and, she was sure, a new box of tissues to obtain for the echoes of sniffles from the far end of the store. She turned to face her desk, smiling down at the two copies of Alice on her desk, and the one in her arms, folding tightly into her chest and cotton cardigan. How odd it felt to hold a book whose sister copy was once held by the woman she had just befriended. It reminded her of a time when she was only just beginning to collect for her bookstore, and was frequenting auctions. There had been a United Kingdom published copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ to buy, but she had reasoned with herself before bidding too high that she already had an original. What a fortuitous coincidence it would have been if...

“Sorry,” she heard from behind her as the door swung open. Myka turned in a hurry, a smile for customer service already wide on her face, only to see that it was Miss Wells again. “Do you have a children’s section as well as first editions?” and the two shared a laugh.

“Yes, I do. Follow me,” and Miss Wells did, down the aisles out of the dim sunlight, into the softness of old book covers, lamp light, and Myka’s voice.

~ ~ ~ ~

Come closing time that afternoon, Myka’s face was still glowing from the Englishwoman’s presence earlier in the day. She had been her usual mothering self around Pete, ushering him out the door when the sun was out, and Amanda was surely home so he could go and bother her for the remainder of the day, and so by the turning of four o’clock, and as she flipped the closed sign on her door, turning to the dulling warmth of her store to watch the fire go out, Myka felt free to smile to herself as much as she liked.

She sat across from the fire, having redistributed the pillows from Pete’s nest, and watched as the last embers slowly glowed out, until there were only a few barely-there glitters of light. There was still enough warmth surrounding the fireplace so that Myka could feel her cheeks flush, but if she was being honest with herself, she really couldn’t tell if she had been that flushed all day long. _The wind and the fire_ , she’d told herself, _are making my cheeks feel more warm than usual_ , as she’d retrieved the copy of _Alice_ from upstairs; as she’d helped Miss Wells about the shadowy aisles of her store; as she’d reached up high above her head to grab a book, her shirt and cardigan rising; as she’d looked back to Miss Wells once she’d gotten said book, only to find for the first time in their knowing of each other, the other woman was not gazing at her, but was rather looking down at her feet with her lip between her teeth.

Myka had frowned, a little perplexed by the instance, but as the Englishwoman had looked up to her, through hooded eyes amongst shadows and lamplight, Myka had blushed and tugged nervously at the bottom of her cardigan. She’d cleared her throat and licked her lips, looking back to her shelves to neaten them, stand them up and shuffle them around, all so quickly as to distract herself. Although she had been tempted, and even suggested to simply give Miss Wells the books that she eventually chose, the kind and – need Myka remember – rather well-off looking woman whom she was slowly befriending would have none of it, paying in full and promising to return again in the endeavour of purchasing more books for her own nightstand this time.

She’d been wrapping the books in her usual brown paper and string when Miss Wells had excused herself to visit Pete again before leaving, but soon Myka was left with a small pile of wrapped books sitting on her desk for a while before the other woman returned. She’d shrugged and neatened her desk, then stood to start on her returns shelf, and then casually, and hopefully subtly, made her way down the aisles tidying and double-checking her labelling, edging her way ever so nearer to the two down by the fire, having a grand old chat.

Myka looked at her little wrist watch, and noted that they had been talking for almost half an hour at that point, and suddenly her warm little store went cold. Her cheeks weren’t flushed, or even feeling the slightest bit rosy. She touched her cool fingertips to them and they felt cold. Her brows furrowed, and her jaw set. She had no idea why, but she felt so vehemently in herself to feel these feelings and ignore _them_ by the fire. A fool she had been; a fool!

Of course, Miss Wells was kind and sweet, and smiled at her when she was doing absolute nonchalant and tedious things, biting her lip at... god knows what! _A fool,_ she told herself. She had no way to know, she thought; Miss Wells had no way to know that Pete was at the store that day, that Mr Lattimer and all his boyish charm was in a vulnerable state that made women usually fawn over him, that even Myka had heard Amanda to “stay by the bedside of and forego work for the day,” and so of course Miss Wells was taking the opportunity to talk to him at length. He had been there every other day, and while Miss Wells gave off the air of not having a job, she had always seemed to stop by after school hours when the wonderful Mr Lattimer would happen to be there.

“She’s here for him, you silly girl,” Myka mumbled to herself, her throat thick and under her eyes feeling heavy. Before a single tear could escape her, she heard the elegant footsteps of the Englishwoman nearing her desk and so she did what she did best of all: she hid herself away behind the bright smile and large glasses of someone who lived in books where she could never be hurt.

“Well then, I am off, dear Myka,” and the back of _dear Myka’s_ mind scowled and flinched at the kindness in her voice and around her own name. “Thank you so much for your time and company,” she smiled, before tilting her chin up to talk to the back of the room. “And your company too, Mr Lattimer.” Again, Myka scowled, and she felt her cheeks grow flushed for another reason entirely – the flip side of the cold cheeks of envy; now the hot skin of jealousy. “See you Saturday, then?”

Myka was so focussed on her hot cheeks and her still cold hands, that she barely heard her; barely heard the Englishwoman’s soft hushed voice directed at her and only her, and when she looked up she saw that the other woman’s brows were raised hopefully and her smile was anticipating. “Yes,” was all that she could say, and in that moment, it truly was, for her brain was running around itself, gathering questions and lumps of confusion, begging to know just why she was feeling this way!

“Good,” Miss Wells nodded soundly, her smile wider and brighter. “I look forward to no Mr Lattimer,” and Myka felt her mouth fall agape.

“No Mr Lattimer?”

“I had hoped,” again in a hush. “That today I would arrive to find only you and need not perform for his ego.” Myka bit her lip lest she laugh.

“You didn’t come here to see him?”

“Oh, god no!” and now it was Miss Wells trying not to let out a shot of laughter. Myka watched as she did, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth as she smiled, then her eyes as her lips fell open, and then pressing into her forehead. She dropped her hand and looked to Myka’s eyes, deeply and with the want to say more swimming in her eyes so obviously that all the bookkeeper wanted to do was dive in. “I-“

“I’ll see you on Saturday,” Myka interjected, not at all thinking herself ready to dive anywhere just yet. She stood from behind her desk and rounded it, picking up the wrapped books as she did.

“Yes.”

“And... we can talk then... more freely, if you like,” Myka said, holding out the books to Miss Wells.

Again, their bare hands brushed each other as the exchange was made, and the feeling washed through Myka so nicely that she no longer felt hot, nor cold, but comfortable again, making a mental note to laugh at herself about it all later. “I would love that,” Miss Wells finally said, bringing the books to her chest to hold, to hug, much like Myka did, she noted. “Well,” and a deep sigh from them both. “Cheerio for now, my little book worm.”

She turned to the door and just as she was opening it, she heard Myka mumble, “but I’m taller than you,” and she just about smiled all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did we think? Side note: I always start eating loads of strawberries and oranges when I feel a cold coming on and it somehow always works! (Somehow... it's science, Hannah.) Anyhoo, let me know what you thought about this chapter xx


	4. FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their first time together, alone. No Pete, no customers, only the crisp weekend air and them. I've started to sprinkle in the overall sort of plot for this story - yes, sorry, it's not just Myka and Helena falling in love. There is a plot. Enjoy!

Myka awoke Saturday morning long before the time that her alarm would have gone off had it been a weekday. The sun was rising unobstructed by clouds for a change, the birds were chirping, the air felt cool but fresh against her skin, in her mouth, filling her lungs and she was positively buzzing with excitement. It was before seven, and there were still so many long hours before she would see, hear, smile at and _be_ smiled at by Miss Wells, but Saturday was her housework day. She had floorboards to clean and a kitchen to neaten, sheets to wash from her cosy bed and fresh flowers to buy from the market. So, she practically bounded out of bed to start her day.

She ate her breakfast by the window, opening it not too much as to not freeze in the morning air. She had a piece of toast and a glass of juice, and when she still felt a bit peckish, had her banana that would have been dessert that night. She swept the floor, and polished her kitchen sink, cleaning out the oven (even though she never let it get too filthy), then remade her bed with new sheets, and before she knew it, she was done. Her apartment was clean. Her bins were empty and ready to be disposed of downstairs at the back of the store, and so she made her way down there.

She waved to the young man across the road who supplied her daily coffee for morning tea and turned to head back to the somewhat warmth of her apartment. Steve was the young man, and he was kind and chatty, always asking how she was feeling, and knowing exactly when she was telling a lie. She said that he should be a spy once, and he laughed about it, saying that they probably wouldn’t really want someone like him on their team. She had smiled softly, because she felt rather the same way.

Pete was sure that her memory and extensive knowledge could be used by some government agency to do research, but she knew enough about who she was to know that they would find someone _better suited_ for such secret missions or tasks. That was the moment she became quiet friends with Steve. They never much spent time together but were always welcoming and sweet to each other when they did see each other.

Her apartment was indeed slightly warmer than downstairs but was still cool. She supposed while she was getting ready for her lunch... _date?_ with Miss Wells, she would make herself a hot cup of tea to keep her body temperature at a safe level. She looked at her watch as she made her way to the kettle and saw that it was barely after nine o’clock, and so she stopped in her tracks, sighing as she slumped her shoulders. “So much time...” she muttered to herself. She thought about her apartment, trying to think of any odd cleaning job that she might have missed or neglected, but it was Myka after all, and she had cleaned every logical inch of her home, just as she did every week.

She thought, and thought, shrugging in a carefree manner as she walked to her closet to grab another layer to wear, carrying her duster and cleaning bucket down to the store. Saturday afternoon was usually the time for store cleaning, and she had thought to leave it until Sunday this weekend, but she did have the time where she thought that she would not. The shelves were properly cleaned, not just dusted, and her desk was neatened, wiped, with even the tracks of her drawers getting a clean out.

When she next looked at her watch, it was nearing eleven. She quickly dashed upstairs, packing away her supplies and grabbing out the outfit she had prepared to wear. Upon seeing it on herself a moment later, however, it was not quite what she had imagined it would be, and so back it went into her closet.

It was the skirt, she decided; it was what she wore to work, and this was definitely not work. Fingers dancing atop the hangers in her closet, she came to the far end where she had a pair of smart, dark brown trousers that she had dared to wear to college many a year ago. She pulled back out the sweet white blouse she had planned to wear, and a cardigan of a soft blue colour, and thought that it would all look rather nice together. Pulling it on, and then her similarly black but not as fabulous coat as Miss Wells’, she was quite satisfied with her style for the day.

It was smart, but not professional, and still very much the coveted book worm that she was. She pulled on her little ankle boots, and her deep red beret snuggly over her long curly hair, smiling at herself in the mirror at the top of the stairs. With all the buttons of her blouse done up, she supposed that she would look rather dashing with a bow tie as well, but didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself. She was to be meeting a woman alone for lunch after all, and while she knew many women did such things, because she knew who she was, it was different.

She was a woman in trousers, meeting a woman who had a flare for making her blush, for lunch. It was different.

The air outside had somehow gotten cooler than it had been earlier in the morning. She wished she’d grabbed a scarf as well, but as she looked up the street to the woman striding towards her, her cheeks suddenly didn’t feel very cool anymore. She smiled and was met with a smile, and a hand reaching out towards her. “Hello, Myka,” Miss Wells said, in a very cheerful voice that only made Myka even happier than she already was.

She was glad to have been so busy cleaning all morning, for it allowed her no time to grow nervous for their meeting.

Myka reached out to take Miss Wells’ hand, enjoying the welcoming squeeze that she received, before it sadly let go and they were simply left standing. “So...”

“So?”

“Where to for lunch, Miss Bering?” Miss Wells asked, and Myka blushed from embarrassment this time.

“Oh,” she shook her head at herself. “Of course. There’s actually this lovely little café across the road, if you didn’t want to continue walking? The man who makes the coffee is most lovely.”

“Oh, is he? Do you have yourself a suitor, young Myka?” and although she knew that Miss Wells was simply playing, she found herself frustrated at the question. _Trousers..._ she thought to herself.

“Gosh, no,” she tried to sound as playful. “He simply makes a good coffee.”

“A most important reason to befriend someone.”

They crossed the road, the traffic rather bare as was the usual for weekends, and slipped in the front door of the café, _Leena’s_. It was a quiet little store, making very simple meals, and focussing on the coffee and friendship with customers. Myka smiled as they entered, to both Steve and Leena, and a few of the other customers. Between owning the bookstore across the road and popping in every day for a coffee and a chat, she had a face that was rather well known to most people of the area.

The lazy Saturday rush for lunch wouldn’t pick up until after noon, and so she felt safe in her nerves to be fairly alone in the café with Miss Wells. That way, lest she embarrass herself which she knew herself to most likely do, there wouldn’t be too many eyes on her. They pulled out their own chairs and while Myka quickly removed her coat and sat, allowing it to drape across her lap, she looked up to see that Miss Wells was slowly removing hers to reveal a slick and, Myka thought, better version of her own outfit.

Tapered pants with a neat ironed seam down the front and back, a more form-fitting shirt and a waist-coat to tie it all together, and Myka had suddenly realised that she had never seen Miss Wells without her coat on. If she had had to think upon what she would surmise Miss Wells’ fashion to be, she doubted that she would have ever come up with what was right there before her eyes. “You look stunning,” she found herself blurting, her eyes wide, and a nervous smile now tugging at her lips.

“Why, thank you. As do you,” Miss Wells said earnestly with a nod as she sat. “I dare say we had the same outfit idea in mind today.”

“We are rather matching, aren’t we?”

“Meant to be.” They shared a smile and blinked it away to look at the small menu.

Myka ordered a salad, feeling that the sunny day had desired it of her, and Miss Wells the soup of the day. As they waited for their meals, Steve made them coffee and asked how Myka’s week had been, to which she was touched that Miss Wells was so inquisitive of as well. “I did see your little display,” she said, when Steve asked how many of _The Hollow_ were still left. “Is Agatha Christie a favourite of yours?”

“Yes,” Myka answered bashfully.

“Why?”

“I love the way she formulates everyone’s point of view, so that it really could be anyone who committed the murder,” Myka answers, just as bashfully, digging her fork into the salad now sat in front of her. She took a bite, still looking down, and then happily chewed away as she looked up, a wide grin on her face.

“You certainly do know your books,” Miss Wells observed, smiling at Myka’s quiet pride in simply _knowing_.

“It is my job, after all.”

“And do you like the idea of crime solving?”

“I do, actually,” Myka said, straightening up to continue her explanation. “I most often solve the case before Ms Christie divulges who the culprit was.”

“ _Most often_?” Miss Wells picked up. “Miss Myka Bering doesn’t solve _every_ case?”

“All but one...”

“Which?”

“The Murder on the Orient Express. I was stumped as to who the killer was, and was completely blind-sided by the very obvious answer that-“ She stopped herself, looking up to Miss Wells with wide eyes.

“I have read it, Myka; don’t worry,” she reassured, before finishing for Myka, “that everyone had done it.”

“Yes,” Myka answered, breathing a sigh of relief. “I could simply so easily see everyone’s point of view and motive, yet was too focussed on one singular killer, that I... well I suppose I overlooked the most obvious and incidentally _likely_ answer.” Another bite of her salad, and she watched as Miss Wells smiled at her.

“Did you ever suppose that you would make a good detective, Miss Bering?”

“Ah,” Myka began, as if she were about to divulge some dark secret as to why that would be impossible. “Alas, I am a woman and my... skills, shall we say, would not be overly appreciated.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, I doubt any man would be happy with me simply doing my job if I was doing it much better than him.”

“You are too right. We are an undervalued gender.”

“Pete once told me as much, though. That I would make a wonderful asset to the police. But I suppose,” she paused, smiling over to Steve at the counter who shot her a friendly wink in return. “So would Steve.”

“How so?”

“I’m not entirely sure how he does it, but he can tell in an instant if you are lying.”

“That would be an asset.”

“Alas...” yet this time, Myka did not continue, and while Miss Wells was curious as to what the end of Myka’s sentence would have been, she did not pry. “I do follow police cases in the newspaper when I’m not engrossed in the latest Christie novel.”

“Do tell,” Miss Wells coaxed, a lilt in her voice, before taking another spoonful of her soup.

“Obviously, I know that the police do not publicise every fact of the case, but what is released, I like to work with and imagine a result.”

“Have you ever been correct in your assumptions, do you know?” and while she was now nearing the bottom of her bowl, Myka, the chatty one in the conversation, had already finished her lunch.

“A few times I have been close, or in the general direction of a correct answer,” she shrugged. “I have been following this one case from New York City, actually.”

“A murder?”

“Of quite a few people actually.”

“A serial killer,” and suddenly both women paused and looked at each other, wondering how they really got into this thick of conversation, about something one would not usually expect to talk about in public on a lovely weekend luncheon.

Myka smiled the oddness away, shaking her head in response to the other woman’s questions. “Junior members of a mob family.”

Miss Wells’ mouth shut quickly; no smile, no expression.

“There was nothing stated about how or why it came about, but that they – the police and the mob alike – were both sure that it was not a neighbouring family responsible for the hit.”

Breathing shallow, Miss Wells quietly placed her spoon into her empty bowl.

“One survived, and,” Myka lowered her voice. “I’m fairly certain that it was Mr Nathaniel MacPherson.” What she had just said seemed to her to be a rather big accusation, but Miss Wells had not reacted, not to that fact, nor anything she had said previously. She doubled-back on her thoughts. “Are you alright?”

“How do you know that it was Nathaniel MacPherson?”

“Well, I didn’t for a short while, but then I had read of his accelerated accomplishments in Chicago as a _businessman_ ,” she said, quirking her brow to show that she wasn’t so sure as to the accuracy of that occupation. “And then Pete told me to be wary of him, and it practically slotted into place.”

“How did Mr Lattimer know?” Miss Wells asked calmly, while her hands were gently wringing each other in her lap, out of Myka’s view.

“His girlfriend, Amanda, told him. Her father is a detective, funnily enough, and she was told by him out of safety. Pete simply passed it along to me for the same reason.”

“Oh... I see.”

“Miss Wells, are you really quite alright?”

“Yes,” she said, shortly and in a voice that was higher in pitch and not her own. “Do continue... what else did you deduce?”

“That the police weren’t telling the papers everything, and as I said before, of course they wouldn’t, but it seemed to me that they hadn’t because they didn’t know something to begin with.”

“What _something_?”

“ _Why_ they had been killed. It was too much of a planned attack – and the police said this outright in an interview – for it to simply be a hit by another mob.”

“You really are too smart for your own good,” Miss Wells said. Her voice was shaky, and her skin was even paler than usual, if that was at all possible. Myka was worried.

“Miss Wells...” she began softly, shuffling her chair slightly and leaning over and around the edge of the round table. The other woman’s dark eyes were downcast, hiding in them the reason as to why she was shaking, why she was pale, and why her hands were reddening in her own grasp. “Helena,” and those eyes snapped up to Myka’s green, and she smiled sadly, apologetically almost. “Do tell me what’s wrong?”

Miss Wells opened her mouth, too easily she told herself, and let it hover there before closing it and licking her lips, attempting to brush past the cold memories she was drowning in.

“Or don’t; you do not have to. But let me know if you are alright, please?” The concern washing through Myka was reminiscent of the time that Pete had turned up at her apartment shadowed in blood, and it made her uneasy. In a rash moment, she reached forward, unsure as to what her hands would meet under the table cloth but was glad to meet a crumbled mess of warm hands that let go of themselves to latch onto hers. “Breathe, please.”

Miss Wells did as she was told and released a shuddery sigh between nervous lips. “Helena...?” she whispered, and Myka smiled.

“Helena,” and the woman of that name smiled so warmly at her from hearing her own name uttered so warmly that Myka could practically see the worry melt out of her.

“I am alright. Thank you, Myka.”

“Good.” The door opened across the room and a cool, yet refreshing breeze swirled in, catching the scent of coffee and... _apples..._ to reach Myka’s nose. She looked up at the now closing door, but could easily see the sunlight on the street outside, glad to see that it was full and glowing. “Let’s take a walk to the park.” She smiled to Miss Wells – _Helena_ – and was met with a soft smile in return, the colour returning to her cheeks.

They stood and paid, Myka insisting to pay for both meals, and walked to the street to bask in the warmth.

The park was only a short walk away, and Myka would usually make it there in under ten minutes, but the sun combined with the delicate warmth for her emanating from Helena’s every shoulder nudge as they shared the path with another person or ducked underneath a hanging tree branch, sharing a quick smile, was incentive enough for her to take her time, to make the moment last.

~ ~ ~ ~

The story of William Shakespeare’s _All’s Well that Ends Well_ details the love and life of a woman, who travels far and wide to secure what is deserved of her and prove her worth. Although her means of procuring her desired result were not at all moral or ethical in all senses, her determination and commitment to her own success was what drew young Myka Ophelia Bering to the character when she first read the play as a child.

Now that Myka was a grown woman and could understand more acutely the motives behind the lead female’s decisions and perception on what the bigger picture should be, it was not at all missed by her that said character’s name was Helena.

As she stood in the edge of the shadow of the William Shakespeare statue in Lincoln Park, the cool breezes and fallen leaves blowing around briskly to hint at the cold and sullen winter that was to befall the city of Chicago, Myka could only look at the woman beside her. As she stared up to the stone statue in front of her, the long lines of her jaw, her neck, the collar of her coat that revealed the subtle curves of her collarbones, Myka saw again the strong woman of Shakespeare’s play echoed in this Helena.

“Did you know that Shakespeare’s Helena was my favourite character from anything as I was growing up?” she asked offhandedly, squinting into the sunlight as she now looked up at the man.

“Oh?” and Myka hummed her answer. “Which play?”

“All’s Well that Ends Well.”

“Ah!” Helena exclaimed, almost joyfully of herself.

“Hmm?”

“Has my surname too,” she answered, smiling to Myka.

Myka laughed away Miss Wells’ attempt at a joke, although she supposed it was successful as one, seeming that she laughed at all. She looked back up to Shakespeare, her neck craning like it had when she was a child to see Shakespeare’s work, all compiled into one large folio on her father’s top shelf. Now, the great writer was in reach, and his words on the tip of her tongue whenever she wanted to recall them. She smiled.

Miss Wells beside her began to jostle about, and she turned to look at her, seeing that she was ridding herself of her coat, the sun’s crisp rays proving to be too warm. She’d unbuttoned it thus far, and shimmied it off her shoulders, but lest she drop her purse to the slightly muddied concrete, her coat was to remain hooked at her wrists. “A hand... Miss Wells?” Myka asked, offering up both her hands before given permission or instruction as to how she may assist.

“Oh, yes,” the other woman answered, handing over her purse and shaking off her coat, able now to tug at it and swiftly drape its length over her bent arm before it dragged across the ground. “You’re a sweetheart,” she said with a smile, taking her own purse back. She held out her own hand as Myka had done for a moment longer, as if to say, ‘your turn, now.’ And so Myka lamented and handed over her purse in return, to discard of her coat in much the same fashion.

Once they were cooler, feeling less as if they were to soon begin cooking in their stark black coats, they continued their walk through the park. Not all trees had lost their leaves, or at least not just yet. It was nice to see the vibrant colours in contrast to each other as if reminiscent of some renaissance painting. Rich greens, offset by burnt reds and yellows, and all in front of a spectacular blue sky; it was a sight that Myka realised she rarely saw if not in a book, or magazine, or poster.

She had her days planned before the week had even begun, and while she had her weekends relatively to herself, that did not always mean that she took advantage of that. She most likely did what slower times of the week would result in her doing – reading endlessly – but simply from the comfort of her own bed as opposed to a creaky office chair. She would go to morning markets to buy fresh vegetables, and purchase flowers that harboured those same rich colours as lay before her in the park with Miss Wells, but she very rarely stopped to enjoy the moment, too preoccupied with simply completing it.

She frowned, a slight bit discouraged by herself, and shifted her shoulders uneasily, pulling to the right.

Miss Wells noticed this, turning to her as they continued their slow gait, compassionately offering a nudge to the other woman with her elbow to break her from her clouded thought. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Myka said, shaking her head with a feigned smile.

“Are you sure, Myka?”

She took a deep breath, kicking childishly she thought at the pebbles of the path beneath her feet. “I never stop to enjoy things.”

“Surely not ‘never’?’”

“No, not ‘never,’ but enough to make me realise that I don’t remember many moments with enthusiasm.”

“Elaborate,” Miss Wells prompted, and while Myka could not place her finger on any specific occasion – most likely because she’d only just stumbled upon the fact – she twitched her nose nervously and shrugged.

“I’m not sure, but it’s as if I have read such a perfect sentence, and have been too fascinated by what the next may be, that I don’t stop to let that perfect sentence wash over me.”

“And that upsets you?”

“Now that I realise it, yes,” she said with a grumble, reaching up to tug at her buttoned up collar, that felt much too constricting on her neck all of a sudden. “I don’t _stop_ to enjoy things. But...” she paused, turning in her stride to Miss Wells who looked up to her. “I am so very much enjoying today.”

“I, too,” and while Myka smiled at her words, Miss Wells saw that she was sighing heavily into it as well. “Stop, Myka,” and they both came to a halt, turning to face each other in the warming sun. Now in her view more directly, she could see that Myka’s neck had flushed in her apparent dismay of herself. That coupled with the warmth of the day, and her annoyed gesture of tugging at her collar, showed Miss Wells that Myka needed some air to ground her again.

Of course, they were out in a very pleasant day, and so Myka’s lungs were filled with cool, fresh air, but her beating chest, however, was most likely feeling constricted and weighed down, trapped in the insistent buttoning of her shirt. Miss Wells smiled knowingly at the presentation, and, without speaking a word or making her intentions terribly know, offloaded her coat into Myka’s arms, and reached to her long neck to undo the top two buttons of her blouse. She coaxed open the collar a little more and pushed the few front strands of Myka’s hair back over her shoulders with a smile of satisfaction.

While she appreciated the kindness, the _boldness_ , and did indeed feel cooler and freer, Myka was suddenly aware of eyes on her. Whether they were only _Helena_ ’s, or the eyes of passers-by, she knew that she wasn’t ready to accept it so openly. When Miss Wells’ hands – and in her mind so suddenly, she had to be Miss Wells again and not Helena – were back at her own side, Myka took a step backwards to create much-needed space, and whisper to herself that she was okay; that she could do this.

She already knew what it was like to be seen in that way; not that she ever had, for she was far too careful for her own good. But she _had_ read every book in her store, from Greek history and mythology, to the small section of ‘restricted books’ under her desk. A book on Henry Gerber who lived not far from her – her parents distastefully reminded her on many an occasion – and a small notebook she kept for making notes on any mention of Sappho from any book that she could find her in.

Myka knew and had known for as long as she could remember, but while she knew so kindly for herself, she knew that the world she lived in was not as kind and simply scientific as she was. The world had prejudices and opinions based on something that they did not even see most of the time but could so easily see if they had looked at two women in a park, one standing a breath too close to unbutton the shirt of another.

The rest of their walk was quiet, with the odd comment about some flower or another. Myka liked that she knew by the end of it more about this mysterious woman, and of her different laughs and giggles, but with every gust of cool wind she felt on her since-bared collarbones, she simply wished to return as soon as possible to the safety of her little apartment.

It was barely two o’clock by the time the sun began to vanish, behind clouds and towards the horizon, and so Miss Wells kindly walked Myka home, coats now back on. “Thank you for a lovely day, Myka,” she said, smiling sweetly up to the curly-haired woman, her green eyes practically glowing in emphasis against the green door behind her. “I do apologise for growing... reminiscent at the café, however.”

“Oh, no! Please do not apologise. I shall be more careful in future.”

“Myka, please; you really couldn’t have known anything about how New York may affect me.”

“Why... if it is alright that I ask... why does New York affect you so?” Myka asked softly, with a gentle nod and earnest eyes.

“I lived there for a time, leaving London far behind me, and believe me when I say that it was not the brave new world I had imagined it to be.”

“Oh,” and she thought it best to leave it at that. A veritable debate in her head ensued in the instance of a blink, wondering so very much if she should ask more, but of course would rather not, for Miss Wells’ sake, have such a conversation on the cold front step of a Chicago apartment, and would rather not, for her own sake, invite the woman up to her apartment for such a conversation, lest lingering eyes from the park still be on them. “I should still like to hear of it sometime, if you would honour me so much.”

“Honour?” Miss Wells practically laughed.

Myka paused before answering, wanting so much to choose the right words from her extensive, and multi-lingual vocabulary to be both sincere with the woman in front of her, but to not scare her away. “I do not know why, Miss Wells,” another pause, in her mind still so aware of how she was insistently _Myka_ , and yet Miss Wells was still unchangingly not Helena. “But I do find you a rather interesting and captivating person. You seem so different from me, and why you have deemed me worthy of even a minute of your time, I am not sure, but I do wish so much to know more about you.” She saw Miss Wells’ lips tug into a smile, looking down to them flickeringly, and then back up to her eyes, soft and inviting, her lips rather the same. She continued, finding that it was a bold move on her part, yet welcomed just the same, “I want to know _you_.”

“I want to know you, too,” Miss Wells whispered in return.

Myka smiled, and felt it necessary all of a sudden that her shirt was indeed unbuttoned slightly. “And do not worry, Pete will surely be here should you want to visit next.” Miss Wells quirked her head at this, and so Myka continued. “Surely you will be wanting to know him as well.”

“Oh, Myka,” the other woman began, smiling to her knowingly, coyly. She jostled her coat around her neck as she stepped back to the street more. “How foolish of me...”

“Foolish? In what way?” Myka asked, and her tone gave her away as anticipating of what Miss Wells was to say.

“That I had not made it clear that my only reason to travel this far across town many days a week was to see you.”

Myka’s mouth fell open; her lips rounding around her silent inquisition of, “me?”

Miss Wells nodded. “Only you,” and as quickly as this day seemed to have existed for Myka, the mysterious woman was gone, and she was left bewildered by her bottle-green door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got half way through and had started already referring to Helena as well... Helena, and supposed that Myka's mind had already as well, but was that too soon? So back I pedalled. And it makes sense, I think. Let's go with it!


	5. FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is where we get a little bit of backstory on miss Myka. Obviously, we all know her backstory in canon, so I suppose here is where we learn about this world's Myka and why she is the way she is now, and why she feels what she's feeling as well. Helena doesn't feature much alas, but is always mentioned and thought of just the same; once she is in Myka's head she never leaves, and so we are never without hearing of her. Enjoy!

The dusty aisles of the Bering & Sons bookstore of Colorado Springs where the home that Myka grew up in. She was never banished to her room for any mischievous misbehaviour but was often sent to the Russian literature section instead to precariously return weighty books to their shelves. She never did much appreciate Tolstoy or Nabokov, until she was a little older and was able to wrap her growing hand firmly around the spine of their intensely lengthy books.

Bering & _Sons_ , cruel classmates would taunt to her face and the face of her younger, and only sibling, Tracy as they marched home after school to do homework in that store that was seemingly not proud to have them, but rather a selection of ‘ _sons_ ’ that simply did not exist. Just the same, Myka’s fascination and love for books, novels, biographies, manuals, anything, _anything_ with words and a meaning, a purpose, helped her to overlook how she’d been overlooked. She read, she learnt, she succeeded.

She moved on.

She moved onto the next grade at school, from primary school to high school, from Colorado Springs to Chicago, from Bering & Sons to her own bookstore. It was a safe place for children unlike how she perceived her father’s store to be. Children and adults alike were allowed to read any book they desired, from Lewis Carroll to Mary Shelley. Many of the children that lingered at the back of her store in the afternoon, studying for tests, or revising class work, more often than not used the excuse for what it was, simply to read the books their eyes and hearts desired of them, yet their parents forbade.

She had been forbidden of words and knowledge above what her age should know, she was told, and did not agree with it at any age. She provided knowledge for all; no matter of age or gender.

She was nine the first time she had snuck out of bed, down the hall and then through the door that led to the staircase that took her down to the bookstore. Of course, it was not as simple as that, taking young Myka all night – or at least that is what it felt like – to reach the aisles where the books she dreamed of reading were kept. And even then, bookcases that were five shelves high whilst she was only just under four, meant that she had had to have planned the scheme with meticulous detail the day before.

The usual restocking of shelves after school lead to her being freely able to use the step ladder her father kept by his desk to reach high shelves, and taking advantage of that allowed her to sneak specific books from the fifth to the third as if she were genuinely doing the tasks that were practically her first job. She’d place books back into their correct slot, and as she was descending the step ladder, she’d hook her fingers into the spine of her desired, sliding it out, swinging it down, and wedging it into a more easily accessible shelf.

She was a good child, the most studious daughter who did what she was told, and did it very well, and so her father never had to follow behind her footsteps come closing time to check her work. His mistake, she’d smirk to herself, moving back to his desk to collect new returns. This left her fairly set for her midnight escapades. At the age of nine, she was still fairly energetic should she stay focussed on remaining so, but knew that Friday evenings were the nights that her parents slept most entirely soundly, not waking until dawn.

Friday night it was then, and she made her way down to the books that waited for her, slowly treating each step as if it were the first. Her breath was shallow, calm, and while her heart steadily began to race, she stopped, and reminded herself of the result, the end goal; the risk was worth it. The stairs to the store had their occasional squeak, but of course, she had planned for this night for months. She began to learn which stairs creaked and at which side, so that at just after midnight on that early Saturday morning, she performed the slow steps down, from side to side, skipping certain steps entirely; a dance that she had perfected over the preceding weeks, until her cotton-socked feet reached the stiff bristle mat at the bottom.

She opened the final door which separated bookstore from home, counting every second as she slowly opened it, slipped out, and closed it. Her father kept a flashlight in the second right hand side drawer of his desk, and it made an awful shuddering noise when opened slowly, but a gush of wood sliding against itself when done quickly. In the busyness of Friday mornings, such a swish would pass for the turning of pre-school homework pages, and so she’d removed it, placing it on the bottom of the returns pile under some paperbacks. There, it was safe until that afternoon, when she picked up the last paperbacks, flashlight included, and took them to their shelves, while her father locked the front door.

She stood it up by the leg of the front display, where the lamplight from across the street would illuminate it enough in the thick of night for her to see, grab, and use. She read almost the entire first half of Bram Stoker’s Dracula that first night, and finished it the following week, continuing every Friday night until she was thirteen and her menstrual cycle began, causing her to dash upstairs as quietly as she could, only to be caught by her father at the top of them. She was therefore forbidden sternly – enough to make her cry – from sneaking downstairs to read.

Not that she did what she was told.

~ ~ ~ ~

**Late October 1946**

Her arms tucked under her covers and folded up at her chest, the gentle cotton fuzz of her sky-blue comforter tickling her nose as her morning-knotted hair tickled her ears, cheeks, neck, Myka awoke. Sunday morning was upon her; _late_ Sunday morning was upon her which was simply unusual for her, even on the laziest day of the week. The sun was warm through the split in her curtains, shooting out a beam to reach the foot of her bed, warming her toes under its gradual heating. She smiled and opened her mouth just a little to lick her lips, and nuzzled into her pillow, continuing to smile.

If she opened her eyes to see her bedside clock, or even to suppose how high in the sky the sun truly was, she would know what time it was, but if she opened her eyes, the image of Helena would leave her. And so, her eyes remained shut, not firmly nor loosely, but happily squished because of her smiles.

“Only you,” she recalled the woman of her attention and affection – for she was now so certain of that – saying before she floated back up the street whence she’d come earlier in the day, leaving Myka to utterly flutter. She’d blushed, and even in a cooler than usual shower that night, Myka had felt warmed at the memory. Her ordinary Saturday night dinner seemed special somehow, as if she were sharing it with _someone_ special. Instead, it was simply her, at her dinner table, book open in front of her and the words not at all being read, her knee bent up beside her so that she may rest her chin on it while she chewed, enjoying the chipper bounce.

Dinner blushing blended into evening blushing, listening to the wireless as she mended a run in her stockings that she had been meaning to get to for the entire week, but was... well, rather obviously distracted. Soon, she was feeling the usual run down of her body, her eyes, desiring to only crawl into bed with her book (that she would most likely need to restart entirely), and get lost in another world that would filter into her dreams. _All’s Well that Ends Well_ was, in her memory, a very compelling play, with wit and humour abound, expertly weaved into the drama of the situation, but for the first time in her life, she could barely finish the page without being distracted. Again.

_Helena, Helena, Helena_ , her mind latched onto, her eyes lingering on the name before finishing the character’s line at all, and when she had, it made no sense in relation to the conversation. Each line was disjointed from the next, for every time Helena made an appearance, Miss Wells seemed to as well. Myka would attempt – poorly – to rid her mind of the Englishwoman, how her stalk away from her that afternoon had seemed to last longer than watching honey drip from a spoon, and the instance of a blink at the same time. In the end, Myka dog-eared the play, a mere two scenes in, and reached over to place it on her bedside table. She sighed, feeling a little disappointed at herself for not at all reading as much in a day as she usually would, but was not terribly perturbed for long, as once she switched off her lamp, she was free to bask in darkness and stare at Miss Wells from behind closed eyes.

A whole intoxicating sleep of the woman, walking down the street, removing her gloves, looking up through hooded eyes or even the slight sniffle of sadness at the café, and Myka thought that it was perhaps the most relaxing, and longest sleep she had ever had.

But now she was awake, and as lazy Sundays practically demanded of people, she was to stay in bed and read. It was what she always did. Some light breakfast in bed, the covers not even made neatly all day, and usually a whole book was consumed. Those points sounded nice to her, as usual, but with the memory of her conversation with Miss Wells the day before sparking in her mind, as well as simply the memory of Miss Wells herself, Myka decided to live in the moment.

The whole of Sunday would be a moment; no reading while eating breakfast, opening the windows wide instead to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, and then down and out into that fresh air for her reading. She wouldn’t make her bed, just the same, feeling slightly unlike herself, but in a good way.

_Why did Miss Wells venture across town to see her_ , she wondered as she boiled herself some eggs and brewed a hot cup of tea. To see her, of course; she knew that. But in the first place? Why did Miss Wells, why did _Helena_ venture across town – not that Myka knew from where she was coming from...

Either way, Miss Wells was there, on her doorstep, in her store, with her in a café and then in her favourite park, for what reason? What was so special about her? Was it her matching tweed suits – she chuckled as she rolled her boiled egg across the counter top, gently cracking its shells. Or was it her taste in books, for she did know that whatever had transpired that day between their hands, their eyes, their hearts when Alice was held between them _was_ something special. She wasn’t sure what made her special, but she knew, and nodded to herself as she brushed her teeth, what made Miss Wells so special.

Her smile, her eyes, both glistening in such a way that made the stars seem dull in comparison. Her fingertips, cool and chilling in a way that only seemed to make Myka warmer somehow. Her chuckle when Myka made a joke at Pete’s oblivious expense, and how she bit her lip in remembrance when the man in question appeared a moment later. Her tears, and how they threatened to spill secrets; ones that Myka did not want tears but rather Helena’s own heart to tell whenever she was ready to do so. She was special because of all the simple little things that were so amplified in Myka’s mind.

She was special, because she made Myka feel special, and while she didn’t exactly know how, Myka knew that she hadn’t been made to feel that way in a long, long time.

~ ~ ~ ~

She was fifteen when her father first bought for her own eyes the books she had read when she was nine, ten, eleven. She smiled and tried to act surprised, like she hadn’t read those words a hundred times over, and knew what the first lines of every chapter were. She still read them as enthusiastically as she did the first time, proudly these times, out in the open, at school or in the front window seat of her father’s bookstore. It felt nice in the most simple interpretation of the word to be able to relax into something that she had had to hide for so long.

It had only been books, but it was a freedom nonetheless.

She, as she found it odd that many other children did not, feared her father at the best of times. His temper and passion to have things just so, meant that she became an adult to berate far quicker than she was ever his child to protect. To be caught by him at the top of those stairs when she was thirteen was terrifying; it was as if she had been caught by the police. Myka understood that he was human, and was harsh on her and her sister for some reason, but did not feel, and still didn’t, that any reason was excuse enough for how her childhood ended up being.

She was an outcast at school, and an outcast at home, for even Tracy was able to land a date, or have a social life with actual people and not book characters. Myka did not mind; she would read her books until she could leave for college and never return. Well, never was a long time, and she did love her family, but to live in another city free from stern eyes that knew her, or expectant eyes that demanded of her, was a dream. And Myka had read enough books to know that dreams were obtainable, that she could be happy.

At the age of sixteen, she walked to school just as she always did, an anthology of Emily Dickenson’s work clasped firmly in her hand for her to get lost in to pass the day, the lunch breaks, the lulls in class time when she had finished her work and her homework and had nothing else to do. It was the usual; a day to get through that edged her closer to the day that she could be free again. A new boy sat next to her in her in the library while she was studying ancient history; she smiled at him politely, and he smiled in return and she was stuck.

His smile was unlike any that she had received from other boys she knew; this boy’s was simply just as kind as hers, asking nothing in return. His name was Sam, and he became her friend, someone she studied with after school at her father’s bookstore, and later her boyfriend. He asked her to movies and diners, the park on the weekend, and would suggest she bring her book to read because while he wanted to spend time with her, he liked the silence.

Myka liked that he was quiet, looking intently at her book cover whilst she read, and not asking questions. Instead, she would meet him after school the next week and he would have been to the school library, borrowing out the book she was reading so that he could read it too. They would then talk about it, asking questions of the characters that they obviously could not answer anymore, but that they would theorise and deduce for themselves.

He was sweet, and because the words of some parts of Greek history or Emily Dickenson did not reveal their truer meanings to her, she gladly let Sam wrap his arm around her every Saturday night at the movies.

It was the first time in Myka’s life – her real life outside of the pages of novels – where she twitched her nose nervously when happy. He said she looked like a bunny, and the nickname stuck. He was her guiding light, making her get happily distracted from her plan to leave, to move on, to be free, and instead made her feel as though life at the moment could be enjoyed and lived in. He bought her books that she loved as if she had never seen before with her now open eyes, even though her father had those very same books in the store. He bought her chocolate for Easter, remarking of the chocolate bunny he bought, ‘a bunny for my bunny.’ He made her smile when all she used to do was dream of doing so.

And then the war came.

Every young and able man joined the army, and fought for a cause even though they mayn’t have known what it was. It had been going on for two years before the US joined the fight, and Sam had been sterner in those two years, so when Hawaii was attacked, he packed his bag. They had been out of high school and dating for a few years; he was only twenty-one, and Myka twenty. She was putting off leaving, for she now had a reason to stay, and went to college in Denver to study law, as did Sam.

When he left, she promised to write him every day, and she did, even while knowing that her letters would take more than a month to travel the world to him. Sam was killed before her first letter ever reached him. Myka left college, not smiling anymore, nor even feeling the desire to dream of doing so. She didn’t eat chocolate, or any other sweet food, moving to Chicago, for no particular reason other than it was far away and Sam had never mentioned it.

She did not want to think of Sam because she needed to get things done, not that she knew very well what they were. But books made her happy when nothing else would, and so she tried to find more books. The idea of a bookstore terrified her but filled her with a glow she had thought once lost forever, and so the decision was made one weary night of study before an exam to have her _own_ bookstore, in Chicago, with all the books she’d ever wanted to read, and would let anyone read them.

If nothing else was to keep her going, spite and old dreams would.

~ ~ ~ ~

**Late October 1946**

“You’re glowing,” Pete said, quite out of the blue. Well, to Myka anyway. She swallowed her sip of wine thickly, smiling nervously up to him as he stood by the kitchen counter in his and Amanda’s apartment.

It was Sunday evening, just after sunset, and Myka was in her usual spot on Pete’s couch. Sunday night was family dinner night, and as none of the three were from Chicago, they banded together to have the night together, to feel together. They were a family, and while Myka had never had an actual brother, Pete was that to her, folding his napkin into the poorest paper airplane in the world, simply to toss it over to her and annoy her; he would shovel his vegetables into his mouth, wiping roast lamb around his plate to collect gravy, and Amanda would remark that she had “not raised him that way,” swatting at his hands until he held his fork correctly.

Myka would happily watch their banter, loving their love, and now wishing for it herself one day. She’d sip her wine and smile when they _performed_ for her amusement, and answer them calmly and quietly when they involved her in the night. Other than that, she was simply happy to be; be in their presence, be accepted and appreciated, be surrounded by warmth and love.

As usual, this week, after that Saturday, she sat on the left of the couch, closest to the kitchen, while Amanda cooked and Pete “assisted.” In reality, he was stealing vegetables from plates and wanted hugs every time Amanda turned around that caused distraction. Myka laughed, biting her lip, and he watched as she was amused. He watched her as he usually did, and saw that she was... different. She was smiling when she would usually playfully frown at him for annoying his girlfriend, she was blushing when not even watching them but instead staring at the coffee table? Or the window? Or the slowly vanishing red liquid in her glass?

She was smiling and blushing at practically everything, and nothing at all, and of course, Pete saw it.

“What?” Myka asked, her smile only illuminating more, the quirk of her lips playing nervously around those bright white teeth.

“You. Are. Glowing,” Pete emphasised, waving his once gravy-covered spoon at her. “What gives, Mykes?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she stumbled, almost giggled through.

“Sure you do,” he said, adamant that her glowing wasn’t simply because of the wine. “Amanda, hon,” he began, turning to the woman in the kitchen. “Back me up on this?”

Amanda took off her oven-mittens, placing them down to the counter to go and stand next to Pete, observing Myka as if she were a wild animal to be studied. “Hmm,” she only offered, with a barely-there nod of her head. “You do seem rather... glow-y,” and Myka threw her head back to the cushioning of the couch in exasperation.

“I’m not glowing,” she protested to the ceiling. “Maybe I’m just happy.”

“Happy, glow-y, same same,” Pete said with a shrug. “So, my question still stands...” He took a step closer to her, as Amanda turned back to the kitchen, content to simply listen on as Pete interrogated. He slumped down next to her, and with enough force for her to almost loose the wine in her glass. “What gives?”

“What do you mean, ‘what gives?’”

“Come on, Myka. We’ve just been through this,” he said, giving her his attempt on a stern look. “You’re glowing, or _happy_ , as you would have it,” and she was the one now to shoot him a look; impressed with his vernacular. “And we, your Sunday night family, are curious as to what the cause of it is.”

“A good book?” and she immediately wished that she hadn’t phrased it as a question, simply hoping that Pete would take the bait.

“If it had been a good book, you wouldn’t have asked, Miss Bering,” he said, placing a hand to her knee to pat. “You don’t have to say if you really don’t want to, but know that we love you and are happy that you’re happy. You know... outside the confines of a novel,” and again, Myka was impressed, and touched.

She settled back into her corner of the couch, feeling snug and warm – of which the wine was helping – glad to have her friends, her Pete, to care and respect her feelings. She twitched her nose nervously, back in her own thoughts again, and wondered if _her Pete_ would really still respect her if he knew exactly why. She twitched her nose nervously, fearing that while he was happy, as was she, there was still something hidden in that happiness. She twitched her nose, because while she was not lying to Pete, she was omitting a truth that was and had always been a silent part of their honest and bold friendship, but was now not simply so ‘in the background.’

Myka was attracted to women, and that she could hide, or ignore, or leave out of her answers when Pete, or Amanda, or even her own family asked about her future, but now that she was attracted to a very specific, very real and present _woman_ , she was beginning to wonder if it was going to prove a difficulty to hide. She twitched her nose again. Twice in the same train of thought, something she very rarely did.

And Pete saw.

“Did we tell you what we got up to yesterday, Myka?” Amanda sounded from the kitchen. She was looking down at her hands while cutting up vegetables, and Pete turned to look at her smiling, knowing that nose-twitching Myka would smile in a matter of moments as well due to their news.

“No?” Myka answered from the couch. She was glad for the distraction, the conversation.

“Tell her,” Amanda said, and Pete all but squeaked as he straightened up and beamed over at his best friend.

“We stayed in bed-“

“Ah...” Myka cut in, holding up her hand. “Am I really going to want to hear the rest of this?”

“ _And..._ we looked through jewellery catalogues for engagement rings,” he finished, and he was right. Myka beamed back at him, almost spilling her drink as she stood up and dashed over to him to hug him. She hugged Amanda as well, across her shoulders while she still busied herself with dinner, although she did smile and laugh a bit at Myka’s uncharacteristic squeal.

When hugs, squealing, and general excitement over the minor announcement that was to precede an obviously much larger announcement was done, and Myka had turned to head back to the couch that only had one or two drops of wine on it, Amanda asked, “and what did you get up to yesterday, Miss Myka?”

In a buzz – wine, engagement talk, and general Sunday dinner night goodness combined – Myka barely thought before answering, “I spent the day with Helena.” This time, it was Pete’s turn to twitch; his mouth slowly curved up into an unexpected smile.

~ ~ ~ ~

Chicago was different than any city in Colorado Myka had ever been to. Buildings stood taller above her head than she thought was possible at the time, but reasoned it with the towering statues of pharaohs in ancient Egypt; they had managed much higher feats with lesser – or at least _perceived_ to be lesser – technological advancements. It was cold, but not in the way that Colorado Springs ever was, with snow and frost on windows even before winter had set in. Chicago was windy, and she found her early college days inside despite the sun outside, wishing for a _still_ and sunny day to enjoy for a change.

People were kind, yet determined as they had always seemed to be to her, especially on the streets. They may have been standing at an intersection waiting to cross, yet they were steadfast and ready to take off, to continue their march, to simply keep going. Myka and all of her books demanded that she stay still and enjoy, but Chicago, and her studies, didn’t seem to allow that of her.

She had more classes and lectures in a day than she had ever had in half a week, but the pace and innate desire to learn and succeed that she found growing in herself more than ever, as well as reflected in her classmates, was almost addictive to her. She studied and read, practised and revised, at all hours of the day and night, warranting her the title of campus bookworm. She didn’t mind, for it was true, but was never terribly happy or accepting when her decisions to study at two in the morning were whittled down to simply loving school so much. She did, and for four o’clock in the afternoon, it was an accurate assessment.

At two in the morning, it was not.

She’d awaken from a troubled sleep, thinking of Sam, and so she’d open her textbooks and distract herself. She’d think of him when the topic of the week was German literature. All she saw in the books on her desks were Sam’s eyes lighting up at the sight of them in German shop windows, promising himself to buy them for Myka and send them home; send himself home with them. She thought of him when there was nothing in particular about her day to remind her of him, but simply that she would want to be telling him of what she accomplished that day.

It was her second year in Chicago when she was first invited by a few of the girls in her modern literature class to have lunch. She’d always have smiled at them, enjoying from afar how happy they seemed to be with their place in the world, their opportunities, their boyfriends or suitors. Myka hadn’t felt that last fact at all in Chicago but was glad that they were. They were all so pretty and sweet, always to her, and sometimes to boys, teachers, lecturers, but always to her.

“They’re gorgeous,” Pete would mutter in amazement as they’d sit and watch, instead of studying like Myka had told herself they would do.

“They are,” and she’d check herself, straightening her back, blinking her eyes, settling her books in her lap more determinedly; she would shake every ounce of dreaminess from her voice as she looked at them.

“You’re gorgeous too, Mykes,” Pete would counter. She’d open her mouth to say something, to clear it up – whatever _it_ was – but would smile and nod instead.

“Thanks, Pete.”

The girls invited her to clubs, or diners where the boys, the sportsmen, the future movie stars would sit, and gush all over their letterman sweaters when they were asked to dance. She’d laugh and enjoy the night with the other girls as they watched their friends get flirted with, doted on, loved, perhaps for the first times in their lives. _Everyone deserves a great first love_ , she would think, and later tell them when asked about any young man who had her heart.

“I did have someone,” she said. “But the war...” and then the girls would hush her and fuss over her, knowing the end of the story and not needing Myka to finish it lest she cry.

“First loves are great, indeed,” her new friend Abigail would say, “but that does not mean that they will be the last. You will find great love again, Myka.” She would smile, nudging up her heavy glasses on the bridge of her nose, hoping but not putting all her hopes in the certainty of love ever finding her again.

She had her books – and her Pete – and so come graduation, with the little bit of money her great first love had left her, and what she had earnt from working as a waitress through college – “too tall to ever make it as a proper waitress!” her boss would tell her when she towered over the customers – she found a little store with a room above it and made a home. On occasion, the girls she had befriended at college would stop by for a read, or just to catch up, and Myka would remember what they had said of love. It would find her, but with new Agatha Christie novels in her shop window, and auctions to almost buy antique novels at, she surmised that she had found love all by herself.

The first year was hard, and she thought that what her father was so boldly saying about her endeavours would be proven true, but she kept going, she kept fighting, and kept reading because Sam had told her to, _would_ tell her to, and so she did. Soon, she had a most successful little bookstore where people from all ages would visit, where her sister almost cried when first stepping into it, where Pete would spill cookie crumbs every afternoon. She had found her love, and it had loved her back.

She was happy. Her back was still cold at night without someone to hold her – not that she had ever known what it was like to begin with – and so she would tug her other pillow down along her to create illusion, but she was happy to wake up, to work, to read and help her customers get through their day with the assistance of a character. Myka Bering was as happy as she thought possible given her circumstances, and years on, would remember Sam fondly and with warmth instead of pain and the coldness that took over from where his arms used to wrap around her. She’d read reviews of great novels, “five stars”, or “a ten out of ten read,” and see her life in that rating as well, in the words of praise and encouragement for more great works, in the songs on the wireless that echoed the love and adventure of those books.

~ ~ ~ ~

Myka wriggled backwards into her second pillow, the warmth of her blanket and clean sheets around her, and her head feeling floaty from wine and the lack of a French twist tightly in her hair all day. She breathed in, such a “ten out of ten read” in her mind sitting on her bedside table with the page dog-eared neatly at the next chapter. She remembered how Pete had smiled at her at dinner, how he and Amanda had shared looks, how she had mentioned spending the day with Helena the day before, and didn’t feel impending doom at the simple statement.

_Helena..._

Her eyes opened, and she looked out to the glow of the street lamp though her curtain, and suddenly realised that the scale for love and happiness perhaps didn’t end at ten like she had always thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it important to loop Pete in on Myka's life whenever possible and in whatever capacity, even if that be in the most subtle forms; i.e him noticing a change in Mykes. Anyhoo, let me know what you're thoughts were/are xo thanks my dudes!


	6. SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an era where these two would not have gone on definitively set "dates," I saw that every time they shared a space - Myka's store, a café couch, a dinner table - and read a book either to themselves or the other, they were their own sort of dates. After their luncheon and park walk a few days prior, their next date has arrived in the form of simply being near each other for time on end.
> 
> This is also the first of a two-part chapter.

Come Monday morning, Myka awoke refreshed and beaming to start her day, just as always. But this time, there was a hint of sadness. She had taken note on the Friday morning before, and then again on the Saturday when she went down to clean, that _The Hollow_ was down to its last three copies. She only did displays for stand-alone books maybe twice a year, and then for a selection at certain times of the year – Easter, the first day of Spring, the last week of school before holidays, Christmas, or practically the whole month of December – and no matter what books were on display, when there only remained three copies, she would step in.

Not simply to reshuffle as her weeks bid her do; reassembling the display, how many books stood on this level, and how many lay around the base, but then at this point either to restock those books or to house them somewhere completely new. If books were selling well before the end or arrival of Fathers’ Day, for instance, she would restock or bring out different, yet similarly-related titles to fill in the empty spaces. But with her stand-alone books of which she only had a set amount of copies to sell before needing to reorder in bulk, they were to be nuzzled and squished into a shelf, away from the windows, away from first gazes and peeks through the glass to where they would be found by a wanderer.

 _The Hollow_ had had its day in the sun, quite literally, and now it was time to retire to the safe and only relatively dusty confines of the new release section, and then to its home of a shelf in the ‘crime  fiction’ aisle. Every other book was simply in the ‘fiction’ aisles, but crime had an oddly specific place in Myka’s heart – perhaps spurred from her innate childhood curiosity, or perhaps from desperately wanting to know reason for things that had happened in her life, but never being able to. Either way, Agatha Christie was more often than not the stand-alone display that took up the most singular room in Myka’s little store.

It was a narrow little nook, which she split up mentally into four sections. She wished they could be neat quadrants, but alas the store was rather a long rectangle instead of a neat and precise square. The first section was the displays and world history section, with the centre table for Miss Christie and her friends, and then along the wall a long shelf that took itself virtually all the way to the end of the room until where the first couch of section three sat. Along that wall sat encyclopedias and dictionaries, atlases and books on different cultures, different foods, different people. Along that wall sat the world. Above its fifth shelf there was a bare wall until the ceiling and that was where Myka filled emptiness with one-days and dreams: the posters of far-away cities that she would visit.

The next section was the entire middle of her store, where six bookcases stood; three longitudinally when looking from the front window, and then three latitudinally so as to create a sense of privacy for the third section where the couches and fire place were. In this middle space sat her new releases, backed by the crime aisle, and then the ordinary and all-encompassing fiction aisles. The latitudes housed poetry, biology, history and mythology, and finally the small children’s shelves, all lower to the ground for runaway fingers to easily find before their parents held them again.

The couches sat mostly against the wall, save for the very back one which was a final shelf, hidden from direct sunlight, and a draw-in for those who had cravings and intellect to stimulate and satiate. When she’d described that idea for the back wall, what she wanted the back corners to hide, Pete had thought that she was meaning erotica, and she had laughed, but alas, it was Myka after all, and she was simply meaning the great and fantastical classics that were hidden from her as a child. Newer copies of such books did sit in the fiction aisles, even the mythology aisles, but these books, the ones that were shroud in a thin, almost silky layer of dust – but that was quite alright, Myka had reasoned to herself more than anyone else, for it simply added to their mystery and aesthetic – were the ones Myka had fought to find, worked to purchase, and planned her entire store, essentially around; first editions, autographed copies, simply the more expensive buys at auctions.

The final section was her little desk nook, where she did her paperwork, ate her lunch, tallied her sales and smiled, blushed at Miss Wells as she stepped through the front door...

Miss Wells stepped through her front door, closing it behind her with a most focussed look on her face – adorably so, Myka deduced – before turning to beam at the young bookkeeper. “Hello,” she hummed, immediately beginning to unglove her hands and remove her coat. Myka rubbed hers together, aware of how cold they probably were, not that she was sure to be _touching_ hands with the other woman at all.

“Miss Wells,” she said, standing up. “I did not expect to see you today,” and her words for a moment may have been taken disappointedly by the Englishwoman, but Myka’s bright and welcoming smile, the lilt in her voice, the way she tugged almost nervously at the sleeves of her cardigan as she stepped around the desk showed that she was nothing but pleased to see her. “How are you?”

“I am well,” she smiled. “Entirely filled with the words of Orlando.”

“You finished it then? What did you think?”

“I liked it very much. I often crave so very much to know the stories of people, the _different_ stories of people that may have lived before me, and I must say that I was not expecting the softness nor the boldness of Miss Woolf’s words to have had such a drawing effect on me.”

When Myka was able to move past the detailed analysis of Miss Wells’ read, and then again past the excitement and genuine deep thought in which she had expelled those thoughts, she realised that she must have had such a glazed and enthralled look on her face. It was true that she had never met anyone who was so _romantic_ about books as she. “In what way?” she posed after a breath or two. Or three.

“In what way?” Miss Wells echoed back to her, perhaps herself a little distracted and enthralled by Myka’s reaction to her words, to her voice around those words, to _her_.

“The drawing effect.”

“Oh? Simply that I...” and she paused for a moment, licking her lips. “I had not read it for a few days, and after our most delightful day on Saturday, I must admit that the remainder of my weekend was spent reading in bed. I finished _Orlando_ at what I believe was just before midnight last night.” Myka smiled at her, mouth agape to let a breathy laugh fall out.

“Oh, my goodness, Miss Wells,” she exclaimed, in a hushed tone as if she had just become privy to a scandalous secret.

“What?”

“You’re a bookworm!” They laughed, partly at each other, but carefree nonetheless, until Myka’s cold hands sent a chill through her body making that light breath tremble through puckered lips. “I’d best stoke the fire again, me thinks.”

Again, she left Miss Wells to take in the store around her, and again, Miss Wells gazed upon the landscapes of London fondly. She did not cry this time, thinking of good times instead, smiling as she bit her lips softly in the desire to once again read Alice. When Myka returned, she had barely retaken her seat behind her little desk before Miss Wells inquired about Alice.

“Of course, if you’ve decided against letting me-“

“Miss Wells,” and still the woman rambled on about how she understood if Myka did not want her to read her copy. “ _Helena_ , stop. Of course, you may read Alice. I bring her down with me every day now.”

“Do you?” she asked as she stepped towards the desk, hovering at the edge whilst her fingertips reached down to caress the corners.

“I do,” and while Myka had smiled into it so kindly, of such well-intention, suddenly, she found Miss Wells’ stalking gaze dropping to catch her eyes.

“Why?” she asked, and Myka had no idea – that was a lie. She did have every idea as to why she brought Alice down with her every day; it was _for_ Miss Wells, whether the woman should walk into her store and request it, or simply for the new connection she found between them, and how Alice only seemed to be a physical reminder of that. Either way, Myka _did_ know, but was so very aware that she did not know how to voice that – that attraction and desire for attention – to the very woman who sparked it in her.

She stammered for words, grasped for anything to say that could cover her feelings, mask what she truly wanted to say, but then she blinked, and it changed. Miss Wells was still looking at her as if she were silently regarding her prey, but it was with such soft, intent, and clear eyes that Myka knew in that instant that no one else got that look from her. Maybe a stalking gaze as such to the bartender to get her a free drink, a man on the street to pass off his cab to her, anything to get her anything, but those eyes... those dark, brown and haunting eyes held no ghosts or other meaning in them. They were honest eyes. Honest for her.

“I brought her down for you,” and that honest look rippled to the rest of her face as well.

Now, it was Miss Wells’ turn to open her mouth and stammer out what words could be as honest with her feeling as her eyes were. Finally, with a sorrowful breath, she said, “thank you.” For what exactly, Myka wasn’t sure, and her body said so with a twitched frown and tilt of her head, but she smiled trying to show as much honesty in her eyes as Miss Wells had done for her. “Feel free to read by the fire, if you like. It’s a cold day.”

Miss Wells smiled and nodded, picking Alice up slowly to bring up to her chest and hold, then stepped off to head to the rear of the shop. “I’m sure being in your company will keep me warm enough,” she muttered, looking back coyly over her shoulder to smile at an equally grinning Myka.

~ ~ ~ ~

The hours passed by and Myka had restocked her front display for Christmas. She had hoped that _The Hollow_ would have lasted another week longer but was glad nonetheless for it to have sold beyond her expectations. Now, the display had the three books that she had put out last year – her first Christmas – and was content enough with a nod this year to present again: _A Christmas Carol_ by Charles Dickens, Enid Blyton’s _The Christmas Book_ , and – because she was Myka – _Poirot’s Christmas_. Anyone who knew her was oft surprised to walk in and find the display void of anything Agatha Christie, and so it had become a sort of inside joke between her regulars and her.

 _The Hollow_ would now spend the next two weeks on her newly released shelf, and then into the crime section, after her favourite _Murder in Mesopotamia_ , because unlike her father had done, Miss Bering preferred to include the ever present ‘the’ in the shelving importance of the alphabet.

Next she had to do for the day, her paperwork and the bills for the store and her home. She had already paid what was needed of her, but now it was for her to go over each piece of paper meticulously to double-check, and then onto the mundane stock lists. It wasn’t as mundane a job when she had first begun her little business, always excited to see how many books were _hers_ , were the ones that she _owned_ , and it still did now, but she was also aware of what she needed to sell and acquire from each book so that she could afford to still own so many books.

Undoubtedly, papers and numbers scattered across them were not the most fun experience for Myka, and so she turned on the little wireless radio next to her on the desk and set to work, humming along mindlessly to the tunes and sultry voices that scratched through to her. She flipped over her pages, sifted through accounts, sighed, and turned to wind the volume up on the wireless. Perry Como played through, eased through into her ears, and she pivoted in her chair to cross her legs, letting her foot tap along to the music, to the dreams and longing that he sung of. She bit her lip and pointed her toe as best she could in the flats she wore without it popping off her heel.

A gentle point, a gentle tap, a gentle bite.

Down the far end of the room, where the fire was crisping her own toes from within the lace up boots she wore for walking across town on her weekdays, Helena sat, suddenly but sweetly distracted. She had Alice open in her lap at the end of the first chapter, the entrance into the rabbit hole, and as she turned the page, a high and entrancing tune began, much louder than any had been before. The voice through the wireless was asking her to surrender, but she heard it much more clearly from the leg that was now appearing from around the corner to tap along to the enduring song.

 _Surrender, I beg you, surrender_.

She sighed, pressing backwards into the plush of the couch and its cushions, and without thinking about it, and therefore not intending to, she closed the book. Myka was being a good businesswoman, a smart girl who had paperwork to do and did it well, and Helena knew she shouldn’t distract, shouldn’t blame for distraction, but she was. Oh, how she was. She’d watched Myka befriend her, be kind to her without asking anything in return, and oh how such a genuine kindness was distracting for her, let alone the legs that were attached to that distraction.

She stood, and looked around about her, spying a small ottoman by the next couch. She stepped over and reached down for it, and found that it slightly rolled away from her, so she placed her book atop it and bent over to roll it down the small corridor towards Myka. She would only sit in front of the desk, against the wall. She would only continue her book there, closer to Myka, beside her, where the music was clearer and she could look directly at the other woman while she shouldn’t have been, but was so easily surrendering.

Myka listened to Perry Como begging things of her, ignored him, yet could hear the distinct sounds of wheels edging their way towards her. She uncrossed her legs slowly and leant around the corner from her little desk to see Miss Wells. Miss Wells who was the cause of the wheels and the soft humming, she now heard. Miss Wells with her curtain of tightly waved hair bobbing around her ears, then a pause as she tucked a few ringlets behind her ear, and then continue her trance towards the unsuspecting bookkeeper.

She smiled as she stood up, over the ottoman and Myka. “I like the music,” she simply said, nudging her new chair to its desired position and taking her place upon it. She crossed her legs, and opened her book, slipping back into her cool and calm persona whilst Myka blushed at her.

The next minutes went slowly. Myka tried to focus on her paperwork, and finally finished the page she was on, and only for the temptation of promising herself a glance at the woman in front of her if she completed it. It worked, and her heart felt anew at the silent sight of Miss Wells, turning pages – from the bottom corner, Myka noticed with pride – and so she promised herself that little routine, that little reward for every page she got through. This page, another glance, that page a smile, even if the other woman wasn’t looking at her, and then the next page back to a soft glance again.

The next she looked up, however, Miss Wells’ eyes were on her, and she was already smiling. She smiled back, and returned to her papers. Again, she looked up at the due completion of a page, and again those eyes were on her, that smile was flashed just for her, at her. She smiled back. She returned to her paperwork, and looked up at the end, to the same smile until she could barely stand it, feeling as if Perry Como was still begging her to surrender. So, she did. She held the gaze, the smile, the slow blinks, no matter how hot her cheeks grew and how much her watering eyes demanded she blink a little faster, she held it.

She held Miss Wells’ attention and captivation, and beamed with success at the other woman’s faltering gaze, looking back to Alice for courage.

Their little game seemed to be over for the next while, as Myka’s rewarding gaze was met with a head tilted back down to the words of the book that lay before her. A half smile this time, and she turned back to her stock list, tallying what she’d sold and what she had sold more of. There was a sniffle from Miss Wells’ direction, but it could be anything, and she promised herself a worthy reward, and so she continued. Another sniffle, and the distinct and awkward sound of swallowing emotions, and so Myka looked up.

No tears had spilled from the other woman’s eyes, and in fact she was smiling, but still had a mournful furrow to her brow. The look of sorrowful joy, departed happiness, the truth in her smile as well as in her frown, and Myka could see that whoever Alice was to Miss Wells, or someone she knew, it was a love that was lost. She dared not ask, she dared not pry, she dared not cross a boundary of a friendship so young, but she felt it within herself to comfort. There was a box of tissues at the end of her desk, against the wall and so she reached out and placed it next to the other woman. She felt her own brows furrowing, not wanting at all for the possible cause of these tears to be at all connected, she now wondered, to those that were shed two days earlier.

“Miss Wells...”

“Helena,” the sniffles said. “Please.”

“Helena, are you alright?”

“I am, my dear Myka, I am,” and she settled herself for a smile, looking up to Myka with clear eyes again. She received a sigh, not believing her, and so she continued on. “Alice was very dear to me, and... someone that I...”

“You lost?”

“Yes,” and she felt her heart shatter at how quickly she was able to answer now. It had been years, and on that sunny Monday in Myka’s store with those green eyes clearing hers, she’d said it so quickly, so easily, and although it never would be easy to admit that her heart had been broken and was never to fully mend again, it was easier when the person she had told it to was not going to break it any further. It was a lot to put on Myka, to expect of her, but something whispered through the cracks in her aching heart that she was perhaps the person, simply _a_ person to ease that pain. “I simply hear her voice in the words I am reading.”

“I’m sorry, Helena.” She didn’t rebuttal it, denying that Myka had anything to be sorry for, because she supposed that she needed the words just the same, regardless of who they were from. It wasn’t Myka’s fault, she doubted anything could ever be her fault, but the apology was welcomed, needed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and took a tissue. She returned to her book, and heard Myka turn her own pages as well.

Myka had begun turning her own pages, finally finished with what was needing to be done, but was slowly, deliberately closing and piling all of those pages just to give her five more seconds, ten more seconds to look upon _Helena’_ s face, so filled with emotions, and far too many of them negative ones. She turned her pages, and found her fingertips lazy, not pinching the bottom corner at all, instead the middle of the page and sliding down. One page, two, three... “ah!” she winced, pulling her hand away as the perpetrating page fell back onto the pile.

“Myka?” Helena asked, closing Alice upon seeing the other woman grasping her fingertip between the worrying fingers of her other hand. She stood up and rounded the desk, placing their book on the edge of it and kneeling down in front of Myka. She wrapped her hands around Myka’s soothing the worrying fingers to release the injured one, and then she could have a closer look. A tiny red bulb blossomed from the tip of her middle finger, and so stood again to reach for a tissue, before bending back down to dab delicately at it.

Pressing a touch firmer, Myka breathed in deeply, and so Helena looked up to her. “I’m alright,” the other woman said. “It’s just a paper cut.”

“How rude it is,” Helena began. “That the things we love can hurt us so deeply,” and she squeezed that finger a little tighter still, expelling more blood, enough to tinge through the tissue. After a moment, she unwrapped the finger, peeling at the tissue as it came away from the drying blood, to see that the cut was barely visible. She smiled upon it and crumpled up the tissue to dab.

“Ow,” Myka said, monotone.

“Sorry,” Helena said, with a playful smile tugging at her lips. She placed the tissue down, on the edge of the desk next to Alice, but continued to hold the fingertips warmly in her grasp. Looking over the finger, the _wound_ , she pursed her lips, and then brought it up to meet her. She pressed a soft kiss to the tip, and then drew her head back to look at it again. “Better?”

 _Insurmountably,_ Myka thought to say. _Amazingly, absolutely, more than you’ll ever know,_ and yet all her own lips could manage was, “yes.” A yes, and she had no idea what that yes would mean, for Helena was bringing that fingertip back to her lips, and then again, and again with the rest of Myka’s fingers as well. She felt as if she were melting, dying internally yet flourishing in a way she never knew possible, and then she did it. Helena’s lips fell agape, only by a breath, and came to press – dare Myka say _wrap_ – around her fingertips.

Her sensitive fingertip, indeed _all_ of her fingertips felt everything, the warmth and wetness of lips, the dry edge of teeth, dreaming for the slick of a tongue...

The door bell chimed, and Myka was suddenly terribly glad for her fingers not being inside Helena’s mouth, for in that moment she was sure that the other woman clenched her teeth together nervously as she stood, and she very well did not feel like bleeding any more today.

Vanessa Calder walked in, from the Wednesday morning book club, jostling about the scarf around her coat collar, and thankfully not noticing Helena’s less than graceful return to her seat. She was practically flustered, and if Myka hadn’t been just as so, she probably would’ve giggled. Alas, she was back to grabbing the tissue and pressing it to her finger, as if she had been the only one that had ever tended to the wound. “Mrs Calder,” she exclaimed once she was sure she and Helena were back to a somewhat natural amount of presentation.

“Myka, Myka, Myka,” the elder woman began, hanging her coat up dramatically enough to almost put a hole through it on the wooden stand by the door. “How are you today?”

“I dare say not as enthusiastic for life as you,” and now she really did laugh. “May I ask what has you in such a mood?”

“Nothing in particular,” she said, almost flatly, back to what her usual level of exuberance was. “I simply felt that my entrance might bring a smile to your face.”

“It always does.”

Mrs Calder smiled down to her, only now noticing the tissue wound around Myka’s finger, as well as her smirking friend. “Vanessa Calder,” she said, holding out her hand, never gloved because she always desired to “feel everything she could of life,” she told Myka.

“Oh,” Helena responded, reaching her hand up to shake kindly. “Helena Wells.”

“H. Wells, you say,” Mrs Calder hummed thoughtfully. “Your middle initial wouldn’t happen to be _G_ , would it?”

“Incidentally, it is.”

“Ah!” Mrs Calder declared, as if she had discovered gold.

“I especially love _The Time Machine_ , personally,” Myka said, in her most fanatic voice, doting on what would be a favourite author.

And because it was fun for the moment, and although they all knew better, she neither confirmed nor denied that she was the great H.G Wells of science fiction fame. Instead, she only cocked her eyebrow pseudo-suspiciously as she returned to her book.

Again, Mrs Calder returned her eyes to Myka’s seemingly injured hand, and nodded down to it. “What ever did you do to yourself, Myka? Miss Wells wasn’t causing distraction, was she?” and both women bit their tongues, almost literally, flicking eyes up to each other.

“A mere papercut,” was all that Myka offered, following suit in the ‘neither confirming nor denying’ game.

“Well, do finish your papers for the day then,” Mrs Calder offered, and as agreement and proof that she was, Myka simply picked up her pile of papers and tapped the base down soundly on her desk. “Good girl,” and Myka beamed, looking over to Helena to share her pride. Helena winked, and Myka beamed even wider if it was at all possible. Mrs Calder was already on her way to the poetry section, as was her usual for her visits. “I’ll just busy myself until I am to return to work,” she called, and Myka nodded to herself, standing to return her papers to her filing cabinet in the small storeroom behind her desk.

When she had locked the door, she sighed with a smile, looking to the street outside and how it was slowly busying itself with people from neighbouring businesses, out into the sunshine for lunch. “Lunch time,” she said, and Helena glanced up to her, and then to the street where she followed Myka’s eyes to.

“Shall I go for a walk? I’ll go and feed myself and then return a touch later.”

“If you like,” Myka said, and Helena nodded, standing and closing Alice to place on the desk, but then Myka continued the phrase, a sweet idea in her mind. “If you like, you can take Alice out with you.”

“Are you sure?” Helena asked, her fingertips just hovering above the cover.

“Of course. I’ll be busy here for the next half hour at least, so do take her out to read.” Myka smiled, shrugging her shoulders a little, in ease and contentedness. “I’m sure she’d like the sunshine.”

Helena smiled at her, picking Alice back up as carefully as she ever did, and held her close to her chest. She removed her own coat from the stand by the door, and draped it over her elbow, deciding that she, too, would very much enjoy the sunshine for a change.

~ ~ ~ ~

The day was indeed delightful, and Helena could barely resist remaining in the warm glow that shone through tree leaves and that sat just so on her skin amidst the still air. She breathed in deeply, entering the park that she had never been to until the Saturday before when Myka led her there. The lunch break rush, or at least this side of town’s equivalent of it – for she was more often knocked off her feet when daring to step outside in such a time – was quickly spilling into the park as well. Every businessman from blocks around wanted so desperately to escape the confines of their offices, meetings, boardrooms and too-tightly knotted ties around crisply starched collars.

Those were the times to already be settled at a café, or safe in her own apartment, or to forgo the fresh air entirely. There would be afternoons, and early mornings, and the odd weekend of freedom that she would be able to escape to the sunshine and calmly whirring streets around her.

And while she was a woman of certain business herself, and was technically confined to hours and important matters, there were certain times, days of the week where she could up-and-go, taking herself to Myka’s doorstep. Rarely, she had ever done so, because there were things to do and steps to take, but on a day of usual frustration two weeks ago, a few words of bitterness, too close to her heart, she had hopped in the silver Rolls Royce and let the vibrations of it along the roads of Chicago take her to a side of town, a street of small businesses, of cafes and a little bookstore, and oh, how she had not been into a room filled with the smell of crisp pages in such a long time.

Of course, it had been the afternoon, and her shadow cast far ahead of her. She had walked far from where she was dropped off, with her words of, “I shall call you should I need to, Arthur,” ringing in her cold ears. Doors were closed, and she reached the bookstore only to find that it was closed as well. She sighed and was ready to freeze, placing her hand on the doorhandle in exasperation, only to find...

It opened and she found herself stepping in, being welcomed in, being welcomed, and so she was every day she ventured there since.

The park was warm and alive like it had been two days before. She retraced her steps around the leaf-covered paths that took her to Shakespeare’s statue. She smiled up to him, then turned her head to smile at where Myka had stood. _Myka..._ She looked at her small watch, the glass face a little cracked in the corner, and saw that she had wandered for long enough. She’d had a bite to eat, and Myka had hopefully survived the sudden rush, so she turned to head back to the store, stopping into the local bakery on her way for a sweet of some sort to simply thank Myka for Alice who still sat snugly in her hand.

Opening the store door, she found Myka practically slumped into her chair. She was pushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead, and half-heartedly sweeping it back into place, although it fell out a moment later, and she appeared too tired to try again. Helena laughed. “Did they run you ragged?” she asked, hooking her coat up.

“I do believe they had scouts on the street to inform them the instance my Christmas display was set up,” Myka breathed, pointing just as energetically at the once-full display. It now housed only a few of each book. “I forgot that it was like this.”

“Like what?” Helena asked, retaking her seat on the ottoman, which she was glad hadn’t been moved.

“People just... love Christmas.” Helena laughed again, a little sorrowfully at the overwhelmed woman in front of her.

“Well, cheer up, love,” she said, and the term of endearment really did work wonders. Myka sat up straighter and smiled softly, enjoying in the few seconds it took for Helena to place Alice back down how kindly she did so. “I bought sweets.”

“Oh, Helena,” and she paused to smile, tickled pink with how it felt to have the woman’s name in her mouth. “You really didn’t have to. I still have a salad to eat for lunch.”

“Oh really,” Helena asked, with that stalking look in her eyes again. “I bought _croissants_.”

“But...” Myka said, reaching under her desk to grab the little bowl she had below it, and peeled back the aluminium foil cover. “Salad.”

“Are you sure?” Helena began, placing down the brown paper bag that had begun to sweat a little from condensation, beginning to rip it open almost _seductively_. “You don’t want these... warm... fresh...“ and how she said fresh set something alight in Myka’s core; she was transfixed. “...buttery and flaky on the outside, and then tender and moist on the inside?”

It felt sinful to be imagining food in such a way, but of course, Myka knew that she was most definitely not imagining the _food_ like that.

“I can save the salad for dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not just specifically for this chapter, but for the story as a whole, I so very much enjoyed every instance where I got to write and create Myka's store space in my head. I loved imagining what it would look like and just how much the natural sunlight diminished as one proceeded further into the shop. I loved whenever I got to be in Myka's head and see through her own eyes. I hope you all do too x


	7. SEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little of this, a little of that, a little Helena, a little Myka, a lot of them. This is part two of the previous chapter, and culminates in the moment where it tips over; friendship and wonderment to... could this be?

Helena had lived a life. Some parts of that life seemed like a lifetime ago, even though she was only thirty years old. She could hear her mother’s tone about family friends when she was a child, and how those women were already thirty and _still_ not married. Helena was already thirty (almost thirty-one) and was not married; in her mother’s same tone had _still_ not accomplished anything. She had, she thought, and had lost much of it too. From London, to New York, and then to Chicago, and when looking at the posters of places in rather a light art deco style, she felt that same wistful tingle in her body, her mind, that she had felt when she was but a child, imagining how far away thirty years old truly was.

Yet it was very much upon her, and as she would lay in her bed at night she would think that that wistful thought was lost, gone, and did not matter anymore even if it were to resurface. Even if it did, she told herself, it was only a hinderance. Everything was planned in steps, and every step was methodically carried out. She had a plan. What she had dared to say she had _accomplished_ in her life, much to her mother’s tone and chagrin, she had lost. She would not get it back. She could not. And so, she had a plan to take back – or simply take – what she could to feel a certain amount of justice. She was now a creature of detail with slow and tedious research conducted so that nothing could get in her way and ruin her plans.

And then there was Myka, and her posters of wistful remembrance, pushing aside her salad to pull apart a steaming croissant and lick her buttery fingers when her belly was full. Helena stared, and found herself not only falling, stumbling, but diving into the risk that was Myka all the while she shook her head.

She shook her head, and she smirked at the other woman behind her desk, who smiled at herself with eyes closed. She watched as she opened her eyes and her smile faltered, noticing Helena still shaking her head.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Helena said, unconvincingly.

“I don’t believe you,” Myka said and there was a moment only a few days ago when she also didn’t believe Helena, but had dared not say it. Now, she said it openly, boldly. Helena sighed. No more shaking of her head, and not even a smirk. “What are you thinking about?”

Helena paused, pursing her lips so that she mayn’t smile, and hesitantly said, “nothing.” Myka all but laughed at her, leaning back in her chair in exasperation, disbelief that Helena was brushing... _whatever_ was on her mind aside.

“Fine, then,” she relented. “Let’s talk about something else. Something you _can_ tell me about.”

“Myka,” Helena interjected, sliding herself forward on the ottoman’s wheels until she could rest her elbows on the edge of the desk. “Please do not think that I don’t want to tell you. I do... I find myself wanting to tell you... so many things, really, but-“

“Stop,” now it was Myka’s turn to butt in and lean across her desk, her hand with a slightly reddened and still tender fingertip reaching out to wrap around the warm forearm beneath Helena’s crisp sky-blue blouse. “You do not need to tell me anything if you do not want to.”

“Oh, but I do.”

And while Myka was insistent on not pushing boundaries of a budding friendship, she was curious as to why there was such a struggle within the woman she was touching. “Why?”

“Because...” and she paused. Helena took a long breath, although it did not become deep at all; Myka imagined that her chest could not bare it. She swallowed thickly, and with difficulty from the butter that still coated her throat, then leaned back to sit up straight, arm retracting from Myka’s kind touch. “I like you.”

“I like you,” Myka returned, and was met with – although that chest had not been able to manage a deep breath, was strangely able to let out – a deep sigh.

“No.”

“No... I can’t like you? Or no... you don’t believe me?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Helena...”

The Englishwoman avoided her eyes, slouching a little in her posture, hands back in her lap to fidget and worry. Her eyes flashed back up to Myka’s direction, but not to her. She found the shelf behind her instead, with framed pictures of her family, Pete and Amanda, the reflection in the glass of the café across the road. “Can I ask you a question?”

Myka’s face lit up as much as she felt it could at that moment while not losing any of the concern in it. “Yes?”

“The café is called Leena’s. Does she own it?”

The bookkeeper’s heart fell, and she brought her fingertips up to her forehead to practically push her impending frown away. Instead she felt the pain of her papercut and looked at it. She looked at it and remembered Helena’s lying lips against it, around it. _Be patient_ , she told herself. “She doesn’t. Steve does. Everything is in his name.”

“Why?”

Myka narrowed her eyes, wondering if Helena was serious in her questioning, but when she held her gaze, could see that she very well knew _why_ but was rather asking _how._ “They met a few years ago. Steve was finding it hard to land jobs, because he...” she paused, her shoulder pulling to the right. “He’s like me. And people knew that. About him, not me. Leena was a waitress at a diner downtown. He would go in for coffee and meals there, teaching her how to better her skills while she made him food. She’s such a good cook, and I guess... the world offers us things sometimes, even though we don’t necessarily want them, but they work out nonetheless.”

“How do you mean?” Helena asked, rolling her chair back to the desk; Myka could see her relaxing again, her breathing not needing to be deep or pained, but rather shallow and cool.

“Steve’s father died and left him money, because he didn’t know. Steve was angry for a while, because he’d gotten this great chance, or this money to help him get great chances, but it was a lie.” A lie, Myka reminded herself, that she had lived in herself and never told anyone. Well, maybe she was telling someone now... “Anyway, he moved across the street and bought the little café, hired Leena and now she lives with him because it just works out better that way. Not great, but better.”

“Because they look like a couple.”

“Exactly,” Myka nodded.

“Even though Steve is like us.” _Us?_ Myka’s mind shouted, as if she hadn’t had a woman’s lips around her fingers a mere hour or so ago.

“Yes. And it was always Leena’s dream to have her own place, to make her own food, and to make people happy with that food. Steve is just the nice guy who helped her make that dream possible. I mean,” Myka forced a laugh. “I know men are annoying, but we often need the odd nice guy to help.”

“And you?”

“And me?”

“Did you have a nice guy to help you afford a bookstore, or are you just that powerful,” and Myka really did laugh this time. No one had ever called her powerful. She liked it in a blushing sort of way.

“I did actually.”

“It’s not Mr Lattimer is it?”

“No, if anything, I’m Pete’s nice guy,” and Helena smiled at the switch. “My nice guy was...” and she paused to think of him. She paused to think of Sam in depth enough to describe him in a way that she hadn’t done for a very long time, for too long a time, and now to revisit those thoughts and details of this _nice guy_ was suddenly so immensely painful. Her vision clouded over with tears. The pain in her finger dulled in comparison.

“Myka, darling...” and Myka shook her head, because why must Helena use such terms of endearments when her heart was hurting too much to even beat faster at them.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, her lips sticking together all of a sudden with thickened saliva. She heard hushing and could vaguely see Helena stand from the ottoman and round to her, kneeling down beside her to soothe her pain. She turned in her seat, feeling warm hands on her knees, thumbs rubbing methodically to give her something else to focus on. “His name was Sam.”

“Myka, you don’t have to tell me,” and it was an ever-present echo of what she herself had said to Helena when her focus had travelled elsewhere, but she was different. She didn’t doubt it in Helena, but she wanted to talk it through, to not just shut off or down.

“I want to. He was my best friend in high school. He bought me books, and chocolate.”

“What kind?”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t eat it anymore.”

“At all,” Helena’s thumbs asked. “Not even candy?”

“No. Not since he...”

“But you ate that terribly unhealthy and buttery croissant, Miss Bering.”

“You’re different,” and Helena smiled. She didn’t say anything else for a while, because Myka wasn’t finished talking about Sam, about her nice guy, so she let her. “He was so smart, and I think that’s why my father loved him. It had nothing to do with Sam being my boyfriend. In a way, he was the ‘son’ Bering and Sons was perhaps meant to have.”

“I’m sure your father is proud of you,” Helena offered, but Myka continued on.

“Sam wanted to change the world, wanted to make the world as happy as he made me, as I made him.” She paused. Her vision was clearer now but she didn’t look at much, just continued to breath in the rhythm Helena’s thumbs conducted. “The war... I guess it seemed like a place to make that change happen.”

“And did it? Did Sam make change?”

All Myka could do was shake her head. He may have, but she’d never know. She’d never know so much. “I don’t even know where he was killed. He was simply, ‘one of many,’” she quoted. Helena frowned, pressed her thumbs into the soft of Myka’s thighs a little harder as her fingers wrapped behind knees to squeeze. If a customer were to walk in, it would be a dangerous scene to be caught in, but somehow Helena’s grip on her was what she needed in that moment to not cry anymore.

A customer did come in soon afterwards, but well after Myka and Helena’s knee-grasping had ended, and the former’s face was dry and free from tears. A little puffy around the eyes, but she could always put that down to a good book and the customer would believe her. She left Helena to read for a while longer, and before she realised it, children began to trickle in, smiling at Myka and her friend, or simply marching down to the back to study for an upcoming test.

She would help from time to time, as she had studied much of the same topics and even more, read about them since graduating altogether. She had vanished down the back when Pete wandered in, surprised to say the least at Miss Wells at Myka’s desk. The ottoman was ditched in favour of the chair with back support, with the bookkeeper’s permission of course. “You look comfortable,” he said, bringing the Englishwoman’s eyes up to him.

“Oh, Mr Lattimer. How are you?”

“Thirsty,” and she stared at him, while he stared at her, a smile of mischief tugging on his lips.

“Oh, your milk.”

“And cookies,” he reminded.

“And cookies. I’ll go and retrieve Myka,” and as she stood to head down to the couches, Alice tucked in her arms again, Pete could only mouth _Myka_ in a shocked and intrigued manner. The woman returned with Myka in tow.

“Sorry, Pete. Nick was getting stressed about his literature examination next week. I’ll just-“

“Mykes, it’s all good. I can see you’ve been busy with someone else,” and all three of them knew that he was not referring to the students at the back of the store. “How was your day? I see Miss Christie has been retired.”

“Oh, Pete, will you never learn?” she began, with a playful swat to his shoulder as she passed to step beside her window display. She pointed down to the copies of _Poirot’s Christmas_ and he lolled his head back in defeat.

“I am a fool.”

“But we still love you.” The two embraced in what Helena could only describe as a sibling’s hug; an arm around each other with a tight squeeze and an awkward pressed smile. “Other than that, Helena has been keeping me company and feeding me.”

“Oh?”

“A simple croissant, Mr Lattimer,” Helena offered.

He turned his gaze across to Myka, for she was the same height as him and would practically tower in any form of high heels. “Would we call that a sweet?”

She twitched her nose, calmly this time, intentionally, and said, “maybe,” with a smile.

“Maybe is good.”

Helena smiled softly to herself, recalling what Myka had noted about Sam, and not eating sweets since, and was glad that her presentation as a maybe was a good thing. _A good thing_... she frowned at herself now, that hint of a smile falling away. Why was she suddenly so intent on being a good thing for Myka, or really a good thing at all? She was to be nothing, nothing but a person with a plan, and with every moment longer that she stayed at Miss Bering’s Bookstore that plan was being sidelined or simply distracted from.

“I’d best be off,” she said, and it had only been a few seconds after that ‘maybe’ was deemed good, and so Myka was confused.

“Really?” she moped, not even trying to hide her disappointment. Helena caught it but forcefully ignored it, walking past Pete’s other side to get to her coat.

“Yes, I’m afraid. I’ve outstayed my welcome,” she said with the attempt of calm in her voice, but her sleeve was catching in her coat and she was quickly getting flustered.

“Hello, Mr Lattimer,” some boy said, and Pete thankfully took his leave to go and converse with him, giving Myka and her suddenly limp arm around his back time to talk to her maybe.

“You really haven’t,” Myka protested. “You’re always welcome here,” she smiled, but Helena was still struggling with her coat, the collar now not behaving or doing what was requested of it with her wrists repeatedly flicking it to bring it out from where it was, but to no avail. Myka stepped in, and forward. “Here,” and she gently tapped Helena’s hands away so that she could calmly turn her collar out to sit properly. She dusted her hands across the shoulders, too, and then let them slide down her woollen covered arms, falling away completely just before their hands touched. “I like you, remember. Please remember.”

“I’ll always remember,” Helena whispered, barely audible but despite the chatter and turning of pages that filled the store, it was all that Myka could hear. Finally, Helena looked up to her, deep brown eyes, clear and honest but sheltered beneath worrying brows. She blinked.

“Don’t go just yet.”

“But...” she had nothing, for a change.

“Spend the day with me,” Myka hummed, as if it where dawn and they really did have a whole day ahead of them.

“The day is almost over.”

“Then it won’t be hard to stay.”

“I doubt that it would ever be hard,” Helena smiled, relaxing her shoulders as Myka smiled, her hands coming up to remove the coat from her.

She did stay the whole afternoon, and the duo of Pete and Myka turned so comfortably into a trio with Helena. She was just cheeky enough towards Pete that he was on the side of amused instead of offended, and was simply doted on by Myka. “Helena lived in London, _and_ New York,” she told Pete, and he nodded, impressed. “She has almost finished Alice and only started her today,” she said, and after clarification that they were talking about a book, Pete remarked that perhaps Helena was indeed destined to be friends with Myka, just so that they could spend all day with their noses in books, but together instead of alone.

Helena would smile at that, _maybe_ smile at it and maybe scowl a little, depending on how perplexed her plan seemed to be shifting in her mind. She was ready to leave into the cold wind earlier, and to walk herself as far back towards home that she, or rather her feet, could manage before she needed to stop and sit. Yet now, she had found that the ottoman without any practical back support was more comfortable than any seat in her own home.

She found a pull within her and it was both growing stronger and weaker with every look Myka gave her, every utterance of her name, every _everything_ that essentially surrounded Myka and how the woman made her feel. Simply, that amongst plans and steps and darkness clouding her heart, Myka made her feel.

The day was coming to a close, and the store was void of customers; just a lingering Pete and a Helena with her head resting back against the wall as she read the last pages of Alice. She could almost have fallen asleep. She felt so calm and returned to what was lost, and with every page she turned, she changed. Her plan was in her mind, steps still bold and intent on carrying her through each day that was to inevitably come; yet, with Myka walking around her, going about her job and beginning to close the store for the day, the sharp and crisp boxes that these steps were housed in began to soften, to blur.

Myka, with every dim lamp that was switched off, was easing what was so harsh in Helena, and if she was honest with herself, Helena had been feeling that softening from the first moment her hands had touched Myka’s. She had been playing with fire the very instant she had decided to return to the bookstore, thinking, she supposed, that it would simply be a flicker of light, of fun, but when a physical connection had been made, when the wall that she had built up around her and would step out of but not let anyone in, was let down for even the simple transaction of a book, she was burned. Myka, whose hands were soft and scarred deftly with many a papercut, cool but nervously pinkened when around someone’s hand, shoulders, collar and not a book, Myka’s hands that were only ever kind and sweet like the rest of her, burned her.

_You burn me_ , Helena thought, and let her lips fall around. Sappho had said such a line once in her poetry, and such simple words held so much weight.

“Helena,” Pete said, and the way in which he said her name, cooed it almost, told her that he had called it before and she hadn’t responded. Her first name at that, so she really was out of it.

“Sorry, Mr Lattimer,” she said, picking her head up from its lull against the wall to stand.

“Pete, really,” he said, turning to grab his coat.

“Alright. Peter.”

“Fine,” he lamented. Only his mother and an angry Amanda called him that, but he supposed, much like Myka did he thought, that it sounded nicer in the English accent. “Would you like me to walk you to wherever it is you’re going?”

“Oh, no,” she said, placing the long-since finished book of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ down on the centre of Myka’s desk. “I will more surely call for my driver, as I live on the south side of the city.”

“Alrighty then. See you, Mykes,” he called, and Myka appeared from the poetry section a moment later. Helena smiled coyly at the universe, for how coincidental it was that she was thinking of a great poet’s line, and Myka was perhaps standing right there while she did. “Don’t forget my milk tomorrow, please.”

“I’m sure you’d survive if I did.”

“But you won’t,” he was positively determined to keep friendly routine the same in the face of such beautiful distraction.

“But I won’t. Get home safely.” He left a moment later, and Myka locked the door behind him. She turned, and it was just the two of them. Hands with flushed knuckles and papercuts, and lips with the softness of croissant butter, the taste of Myka’s fingertips, still on them. “The fire isn’t out yet. Sit and read again while I wait for it to die out, if you want.”

“I’ve finished, actually,” Helena said, tapping Alice’s cover.

“Really?” Myka asked. “No one reads books that fast.”

“You do,” Helena pointed out.

“And I thought I was alone.”

“Maybe you’re not alone.”

“Maybe you’re not either.” To soften, to blur.

Myka left to watch the fire go out, and Helena stood for a moment before stomping her foot and following her. She found Myka siting on the couch, rather exactly where she was much earlier in the day before she had been initially distracted – and she felt it important to note, that if she ever told Myka directly how much of a distraction she proved to be, that it was nothing but a _pleasant_ distraction and that she would very much like to be so distracted for the remainder of her days, but she digressed. For now, she sat down next to her, mimicking the other woman’s action to simply stare at the fire’s last embers. “It’s almost out,” Myka said, as if she didn’t want to keep Helena – who could very well leave whenever she wanted to – from leaving.

“It practically is.”

“Oh...” Helena heard, and she leaned back into the couch in defiant response.

“I’ve had such a lovely day, Myka,” she said, barely a whisper in the silence of the store.

“So have I. But we barely did anything,” and she leaned back too. “Just you wait until I drag you to museums and art galleries. Then we’ll have a great day.”

“I’m sure we will,” and she smiled at how Myka’s face glowed, regardless of the already-there glow from the fireplace. But for now... “Lovely days in the store are just as nice, I think.”

“So do I.” A lull, and it was comfortable, soothing to hear each other’s – and their own – calm breathing. “Helena, your copy of Alice...”

“Yes?”

“Did you sell it at an auction?”

“Yes, I did,” she answered, turning her head to look at Myka as her face showed her thinking.

“Did you only sell it last year?”

“In about September.”

“At Thalia Hall, by any chance?” and the slow soothing breaths that had been present a moment ago were quickening, shallowing out from nerve.

“Yes. Myka, how did you know?”

“I was there,” she said, before turning in her spot on the couch to look wide-eyed and mouth agape at Helena. “I bid on your copy of Alice.”

“You did?”

“I did. There was only one United Kingdom published edition of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ to be sold in the hall, in September, in all of nineteen-forty-five. And I bid on it.”

“Why didn’t you buy it?” Helena asked, a little frustrated all of a sudden that Myka hadn’t.

“The bid went too high for my liking, and I do already have my own copy, so I left it.”

“You left it?”

“And I was happy with that. You got a nice amount of money, the man got a very valuable and rare edition of a classic book, and I didn’t waste my money. Not that it would’ve been a waste, you know.”

“Myka,” Helena smiled.

“I would’ve been honoured to have your copy-“

“Myka, really.”

“And I would’ve met you. I would’ve shaken your hand,” she said, grabbing Helena’s hand from her lap, shaking it in the enthusiasm she would have a year ago. “I would’ve looked into your eyes and thanked you sincerely.” Helena blinked, a little saddened now, all frustration gone. “I would’ve met you.”

“A whole year ago.”

“A whole year ago,” Myka echoed.

“Now _that’s_ the real waste.” Eyes still lingered on each other, and it was intoxicating. Hands still clasped one another, and it was suffocating. Helena’s lips parted, needing air, and her eyes – her foolish eyes – flicked down to Myka’s own lips. They came back up a moment later, but it was a long moment later, and she could feel that Myka’s hand was warm, the only glow in her cheeks now from having her lips glanced at. The fire was out. And yet, Helena was still burning. “I might give Artie, my driver, a call.”

Myka’s hands let go, so emphatically that they pressed flat to her lap instead, just for the need of pressure still against them. She looked down at them as Helena stood and walked away. She closed her eyes. She saw Helena’s eyes dropping down to look at her lips, and she felt a thrum in her chest, a push, a desire, a want. She opened her eyes and looked at the fire. The last embers were quiet and Myka could hardly remember where they had been, now simply blended into grey ash. She heard her phone being hung up. She stood up, and walked.

“He’s on his way. He’ll only be about ten minutes, maybe less now that the traffic is dying down,” Helena said, the air between them now thick.

“We can wait on the street if you like? I don’t think the wind is too strong.”

“Alright.”

They put their coats on and walked outside. Myka locked the door behind her, and was glad for the crispness of the air, now that the sun was far behind the buildings and they were standing in shadows. Cars drove past them, and they stayed quiet. After a few minutes the cold was getting to them a bit too much, for both did not have scarves at all. Myka’s cheeks were drying out and she could see Helena beside her starting to shuffle about, walk on the spot to keep warm. “Come on,” she said, and instead of turning back around directly and walking back into the store, she rounded in front of Helena to get to her bottle-green door, unlocking it, and enjoying the long sweep of her ‘wind guard’ behind it.

“Are you sure?”

“He’ll sound the horn, won’t he?” Myka asked, stepping inside and waiting to be followed.

“He will,” and Helena stepped in. The door shut quietly, a sharp, almost breath of air coming from it before it finally shut. Myka walked up the stairs that stood directly before them, but she did not follow this time. She feared her lips mightn’t let her come back down. _Never mind,_ she told herself, for Myka had only hung up her coat and cardigan and was now descending again. The woman stood before her, smiling in her short-sleeved white blouse, the top buttons still done up. As if it were last time, and the woman before her were over-heating, Helena reached up and undid the first button, and then the second, pinching the collar between her outstretched fingers to give a gentle tug to. Myka’s neck and chest were flushed, and not from the wind.

“Helena...” she whispered.

“Myka, I like you.”

“And I like you. We’ve done this before,” she laughed.

“No,” and she shook her head a little because they had not done _this_. “You heard me.” Myka quirked her head. “Steve is like you. And Steve is like me. I am like you.” Myka blinked softly. “I like you. I’m attracted to you.” She blinked again.

“I’m attracted to you, too.” Again, but this time her blink preceded her own eyes dropping to Helena’s lips. She looked back up, and her lips were parted, dry. She licked them slowly, just enough, and entirely nervously. She breathed out and it was the loudest thing she had ever heard. She breathed in and felt Helena’s hands on her shirt again, on her collar, on her. She began to step forward, barely a step, more of a tentative shuffle, and she noticed for the first time how they were of similar height, but only because Helena was in heels. She thought about how desperately cute she would be looking up to Myka, begging her silently to kiss her, to surrender, and she sighed.

A long horn sounded from just outside the door, and Myka’s sigh turned into a whine. “Are we to only be interrupted today?”

“I imagine so,” and her words sounded as pained as Myka’s whine had been.

“You had better go then, lest Mr Artie get suspicious.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“But still,” Myka prompted, because even if he didn’t, others would.

“I’m going to be busy for the next couple of days. I won’t make it to you until perhaps Friday afternoon,” Helena said, again with pain.

“That’s so long,” and it had never seemed like ‘so long’ until she was beginning to crave a woman’s kiss.

“Do you have a pen?” Myka patted herself down, and could not find one, so dashed upstairs quicker than she’d ever done so before. She returned a moment later, a ball-point pen in hand. “And paper?”

“Ah!”

“Never mind,” Helena said with a soft laugh, grabbing Myka’s right wrist, and bringing her arm up to her. She wrote a number, a series of numbers and Myka began to smile because she never wanted to wash those numbers off. “Call me tomorrow night after six.”

“I will,” and Helena smiled too. She held the pen back up and Myka took it with her left hand, because her right was still being held. Held and then kissed. Her palm was kissed, and she curled her fingers just enough to graze a soft cheek. Her palm was kissed, and then those kisses found her fingers, and her fingertip with the papercut where she could feel everything; warm lips so intensely, and the edges of little teeth.

Another horn, and Helena purposefully pushed Myka’s hand back to her side. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Soon,” and then Helena was gone and Myka pushed her ‘wind guard’ – an old stocking filled with other old stockings – back into place, before pressing her warm forehead to the cold wood of her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember maybe crying a little when I finished this chapter. I was so happy and excited and I imagined that Myka's legs would be burning more than they ever had from her mad dash up the stairs to grab that pen. Let me know what you think and how you are feeling about it all!! xo


	8. EIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so for a little while at least, they don't see each other as often as their flirtatiously beating hearts want of them, but in the interim, they turn to phone calls. And through phone calls - although not being able to see each flush to cheeks, each quirk to lips, each hooded and wanting look - they find that there is a sort of braveness that comes from not seeing each other. The wooing of phone conversations... so that when they do see each other, they are further along and deeper into each other than the last time, but also more comfortable. Enjoy!

Myka was not entirely sure how long after six o’clock she should wait before calling the number that Helena had written on her arm – the collection of numbers that had only been casually washed the night before, barely a splash of water running down it. She felt a little odd standing out on her bathmat once clean... mostly. The ends of her hair had dripped, her towel snug around her bodice, and her arm, ink not quite scrubbed off still staining her arm.

She had most definitely written the number down on a piece of notepad paper once Helena had left, once she had been able to level out her heart rate, once she had been able to remove her forehead from the cool of her door and slow her way upstairs. She had written the phone number down and stared at it, seeing in that random smattering of numbers only Helena’s face and the anticipation of her voice mixed with the hum of static that carried it.

She had written the number down and found herself in her cooling bath not wanting at all to scrub it away, to smudge the ink down her arm so that the numbers became illegible. She’d carried them around with her that night, reading in bed with her fingertips dancing along the surface of her forearm, caressing the numbers in lieu of caressing Helena herself. Again, she had found it hard to stay connected with the words of Shakespeare in the play before her, but was still able to take the words in nonetheless. Helena had caused enough distraction that day and she was determined to finish at least one scene before falling asleep.

When she awoke, the numbers were still there, but faded, rubbed off a little to the inside of her flannel pyjama shirt. She finally succumbed and washed them off as she was brushing her teeth but felt oddly softened by the thought of having spent the night with them, with something that was Helena’s.

Her day was dreary, but quick where she thought it would drag on in anticipation to her phone call that night. She had looked at the phone on her desk so many times that even when the front door opened and the soft bell chimed, she mistook it for the phone and went to pick it up, even though she realised mid-reach that it could not possibly be Helena. She barely sat at her desk for the remainder of the day. Even without physically being there, Helena was a distraction to her.

And so it was that Myka had finished her Tuesday, was back into her warm apartment, snug in her pyjamas and her coat, sitting on her little two-seater sofa looking at the small wall clock that hung by the kitchen ahead of her. It was ten minutes to six, and it was to be the longest ten minutes of her day. She had nothing to do. Nothing to do but wait. She waited and began to think, of what to say, of how to say hello on the phone when she heard Helena’s voice, when she heard Helena say her name. She began to think of what she would ask Helena; how was her day, had she any plans for the evening, did she have her own pen and paper handy so that Myka could in return give her phone number.

She wondered torturously, what if she were too eager to call. Would Helena have said, “after six,” but not expected Myka to have been so attentively literal? Would she instead be having her dinner, maybe a drink, thinking that Myka would call at closer to seven, and in that case, could Myka be having her own dinner instead of sitting, poised and clammy. _No_ , she twitched. She reasoned that Helena would have said six with the intention of six, not seven, not eight, not anything but simply, after six.

The clock said that it was five to six. Myka nodded and reached across to the lamp beside her and switched it off, stood and then walked to her kitchen and switched off the light there. She left the light at the top of her stairs on so that she could pull on her little ankle boots – hardly fashionable nor anything she preferred to wear to work unless she felt the lack of motivation to find anything better, yet perfect for when she needed to make an errand phone call at night or on the weekend – and so that she could see her way down and then back up again when she returned. She locked her front door, ducking her head as much as she could into the upturned collar of her coat, and stepped to the side to unlock her store.

Most businesses and homes, her father had told her once – and harshly, but that was simply his usual tone to her now – had a telephone at each. Myka had retorted that most businesses and homes were not stacked atop each other, and that of course a person would have a phone at their place of work and then again at their home, a fair distance away. It did not bother Myka that she had to venture downstairs to her store, to her desk and chair that was cold to make phone calls, or receive them when expected. It was just part of her world now.

Bering & Sons most certainly only had one telephone, and it was upstairs in the home! “How practical, Father,” she would say when she was eleven and left in charge of the store for a few minutes while he dashed upstairs to make a phone call.

She shook her head as she turned on her little desk lamp. It didn’t offer much light, and so she rarely stayed down in the store after dark to finish paperwork. She’d take it upstairs to complete, but for her simple phone calls, where there was just enough light to see the dial, the lamp did its job. The door was locked, her desk was barely visible from the street, and even from the twisted angles where she was, the dim light did not illuminate her face when she leant back in her chair.

Myka could smile all that she wanted.

She looked at the clock on her wall and smiled. One minute past six. She dialled and enjoyed the tone breaming into her ear before the scuffle of the phone at the end of the line sounded, and Helena’s voice swum through. “I knew you’d be quite literal.” Myka smiled. Of course she would be. She was Myka. “How was your day, Myka?”

“Alright. Not as long as I had expected it to be.”

“How so?”

“Well, you know when you are waiting for Christmas morning to arrive, and you are lying in bed waiting to fall asleep, but it won’t come, and the minutes tick by ever so slowly?”

“Are you comparing me to Christmas?” and the response to say how much she would thoroughly enjoy finding Helena under her tree waiting to be unwrapped was sitting at the tip of her tongue, so she bit it. She bit it hard, and only managed and simple, ‘mmhm,’ instead. “You flatter me.”

“You ought to be flattered,” Myka said. “You ought to be complimented every day.”

“Oh,” Helena said, almost surprised, but Myka was a little confused as she was sure that all she had done the past few days while getting to know the other woman was fawn over her, to blush at her every glance, to smile at every thought she deemed worthy of sharing with simple bookkeeper Myka Bering. “And what would you compliment me on, Myka?”

“Your smile. Your laugh. Your love of literature. Oh, how I adore your love of literature.”

“You adore it?” Helena asked.

“I’d be a fool not to.” The line went silent for a moment, each taking in how sweet it felt to be spoken to by the other, for they mutually felt that neither were deserving of the other. “And how was your day?” Myka broke through, continuing simple conversation like they hadn’t just fallen into each other a moment before.

“Long, and tedious.”

“I’m sorry. What made it so tedious?”

“Talking to men,” Helena said bluntly and Myka chuckled. “They are so full of hot air and their own self-worth that they often forget that I am even there to converse with.”

“Who do you think they are conversing with instead?”

“Their egos,” and again Myka chuckled.

“I wonder if I simply nodded and walked away if they would actually notice, or care.”

“I’d care,” Myka said.

“I know you would.” Myka smiled to herself, pushing back into her chair just so that her toothy grin was absolutely not seen from the street.

“But other than that, or rather _them_ , how was your day?”

“Not too horrible. I bought myself some things,” Helena answered, truthfully.

“What sorts of things?”

“Oh, it’s silly,” she said. “I see these men at a club I go to, and they can throw bottles in the air and catch them with their left hand, or right hand, and I’d never know which is their dominant.”

“And so...?”

“And so, I simply bought some things to help me practise that skill,” again, said truthfully.

“It’s not silly,” Myka said. “A little different in the way that hobbies go... but I don’t know... something interesting.”

“Thank you,” and now it was Helena’s turn to chuckle, a little nervously, but Myka did not catch that part.

“I had no idea that you would like to learn how to throw bottles and make... what, cocktails?”

“Well, I like drinking them, so I suppose I should learn how to make them.”

“Sound logic,” Myka appraised. “Do you think you’ll still make it to the store on Friday?”

“I’m not sure,” Helena answered. “Things can pop up where I work, and I can’t always get away when I’d like to. I shall endeavour to, though.”

“I understand.”

“But if I don’t, I will be sure to make it up to you,” Helena cooed.

“How?”

“I’m not sure yet, but it will be worth it,” and Myka’s breath caught in her throat, for she could only imagine what sorts of things Helena could do to make it up to her.

~ ~ ~ ~

Friday was Myka’s turn to have a slow and tedious day. Helena didn’t come by. She hoped for maybe even a phone call to say that she wouldn’t, to put her out of her misery, as she had given the Englishwoman her phone number on Tuesday night, but alas. She sat at her desk and waited for a call and waited for Helena to walk through her door all day. She worried terribly that her customers would have found her aloof, and so she focussed more intently than usual on every word that was said or asked of her.

When she went to bed that night, she punched her pillow a little; just to make it fluffier, she told herself, but she knew that she was lying. She ought not to be mad, she had no right to because Helena was simply a friend and a friend that had her own job to attend, she knew. She knew this much, and yet still she was angry.

“Maybe not angry,” she told the Helena in her play. “Maybe just sad,” and so she curled up with this one instead and let her words calm her down until she fell asleep.

Saturday morning consisted of the morning markets on the edge of Lincoln Park, and then chores. She was having a hot cup of tea, sitting on the edge of her bed and looking towards the clear sky out her window before she was to head down to the store to clean, when there was a knock on her bottle-green door. She took another sip of her tea, uncrossing her legs which were a little numb from being partially sat on, and walked downstairs.

She opened the door with the swish of her ‘wind guard’ and saw a smartly dressed, brightly smiling Helena. She was dressed in those dashing dress pants once again, a loose-fitting button-up, and a dark faintly pinstriped blazer that Myka could only assume she’d bought from the men’s department. Either way, she was breath-taking in a way that made Myka feel severely underdressed, and severely flushed. “You look incredible,” she blurted, and Helena smiled coyly. She knew she did, and she had done it most likely for that exact reaction from the woman in front of her.

Myka welcomed her in, and upstairs to her little apartment, thankfully as clean as could be, although she knew that it was mostly clean the rest of the time as well, so she really needn’t have worried. Helena saw the bucket of cleaning supplies and remembered the week before, how Myka had mentioned Saturday being her house cleaning day, and felt a fool for focussing so much on making it up to her instead of listening to her. “Oh, Myka,” she began. “Your house cleaning day.”

“It’s alright, Helena. I’ve finished.”

“The store, too?”

“Well, no,” and Helena shook her head at herself. “But, I did manage to do a lot of mindless cleaning yesterday instead, so I suppose it doesn’t really need it today.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I was going insane hoping you’d stop by yesterday, and so I cleaned.”

“I’m sorry about that as well,” Helena moped.

“But you’re making it up to me by being here, correct?” Myka asked as she placed her empty cup of tea on the edge of her sink. She passed a nodding and, again, smiling Helena to her wardrobe, a small standing cupboard that creaked when she opened it and no amount of oil would fix. “What shall I wear?”

“I rather like your overalls,” Helena said with an accentuated nod to Myka’s current attire.

“No,” she laughed with a shake of her head. “I can’t be dressed like this when you’re dressed like that!”

“And how exactly am I dressed, Miss Bering?” Helena asked, folding her arms in mock offence.

“I don’t know – like you own a club!” and Helena’s smile faltered. “While I look like the boy who brings the newspaper to your doorstep every morning.”

“I happen to think you look rather cute, actually.”

“I am not cute,” Myka argued.

“You’re right,” Helena agreed and for a moment Myka was heartbroken. “You are more than that. You are utterly adorable,” and nervous hands dried from scrubbing and cleaning all morning came up to her cheeks, worried that the nerves might burst from such constant blushing. “Myka,” Helena began to laugh, crossing over to her and gently grabbing her wrists. She held until those hands fell and they were standing there, still, silent, slowly edging fingers across warm skin until they were holding hands.

“Your hands are colder than mine,” Myka whispered, rubbing her thumbs purposefully of the backs of the hands in hers.

“I didn’t wear gloves today.”

“Why?”

“So that I could touch you,” Helena answered, and while her hands were cold, her face suddenly went burning hot. “I mean...”

“I’m glad. Let me keep you warm,” Myka said with eyes closing.

“Okay.” Helena furrowed her brows a little, because it was unlike her to utter a simple ‘okay’ but in that moment, it was all that she could think of to say. Not that she really had to say anything, but she thought to say something instead of kissing her agreement, although she wasn’t sure why. She so very much did want to kiss Myka – it burned her heart addictively to imagine how she would do so – but she also, with all of her steps in her plan, the edges still not softened enough to change completely, definitely, did not want to be the one to initiate it, to drag Myka in with her lips.

Even to hold her hands for too long felt like it was luring Myka in, and so she stepped back, loosening her grip but not letting go entirely lest she hurt the other woman, and edged her away from – she noticed all of a sudden even though she had seen it when she walked it – the bed.

“I ask again,” although Myka was asking in a softer voice. “What shall I wear?”

“Your overalls, and a jacket because it is cold, but you shall wear your paperboy overalls and take me to the markets I passed on my way here,” she practically ordered, letting go of Myka’s hands finally.

“Well, since you said that I was adorable, I’m sure I can do that for you.” She grabbed a woollen coat from her wardrobe, stopping to run her hand down the sleeve of the Sam’s old varsity sweater from high school. It was one of the few things of his that she still had with her. Otherwise, it was just books, and a single photograph. His family had the rest. She hadn’t called them in a long time. She told herself to by the end of the weekend.

Helena saw her and didn’t talk again until they were back on the street. She did help her with her jacket and hold her hand down the stairs, though.

~ ~ ~ ~

The day was sunny, but not as hot nor direct in that sunshine as weeks ago. This allowed the markets to go on until closer to noon, and even after. This also allowed Helena to walk through the stalls selling the last of their foods, fashion items, and flowers with open eyes, enjoying the bright colours and fragrances that surrounded her. Myka followed from a few steps behind. With every swish of Helena’s flowing hair – not so tightly curled and pinned today, rather hanging with its natural soft wave – as the woman turned to grin at her, she smiled softly. With every item of food that Helena simply “had to buy” for its freshness, gorgeous aroma and even richer flavour, Myka suppressed a laugh, thinking that this too would end up as her lunch, for the Englishwoman bought, broke, and shared her purchases with her.

Still picking at the soft innards of a small loaf of bread and then breaking off the bare crust for Myka to chew, Helena wandered aimlessly until they reached the far, shadowy end of the markets. The flowers were still glistening and alive, and Myka smiled around her chewing at the man she always bought her weekend bunch from. “Back for another bouquet?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not, Hugo. Just showing a friend the markets,” Myka answered. Helena smiled coyly up to her at the word ‘friend,’ and Myka – what she decided to call it – behaved. She very much wanted to nudge Helena’s side, playfully shove her a little, for the coy smile was so obviously flirting, and they could not take that risk in public, even around people that Myka saw every week. Hugo turned his back, busying himself with another customer and giving the two women free range to enjoy the flowers, and so they did.

Myka gestured for Helena to step over to the lilies, standing tall and unopened, but the other woman, the shorter woman – for she was wearing small dress shoes, of which Myka assumed she got from the men’s department as well... or maybe even the boys – was too busy continuing her coy grin to her _friend_. “Look at the lilies, Helena,” she said, now intently turning the other woman in that direction by her shoulders. “You can’t smile at me like that,” she whispered, still standing close enough to do so.

“Sorry,” Helena said, pulling herself back into line quickly.

“I like it,” Myka said, bending over to smell the flowers before them, making causal conversation. “But I don’t want to get into trouble.”

“I know.” Helena smelled the flowers too, smiling softly this time at Myka, in appreciation of the scent, and in apology. “So, you bought flowers this morning?”

“Lilies, and a few daisies to scatter in the vase amongst them.”

“I didn’t see them out... in your apartment,” Helena said, a little cautiously.

“I hadn’t trimmed their stems yet,” Myka said. “And you are allowed to be in my apartment.” They were talking softly, but Myka was still sure to glance about her on occasion to assure herself that they weren’t being eves-dropped on.

“I’m glad.”

“And you can smile at me like _that_ there. Just not here,” and – playing with fire, as was a hobby of theirs – it was Myka this time to smile flirtatiously at the other woman, but only for a second before stepping off again, Helena following her gait. “My flowers are sitting in my sink. I’ll put them out when I get home.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to have dragged you away from your flowers.”

“Stop apologising, Helena,” she said, turning to the other woman mid-step. “They’re in water, so they’ll be fine. And besides, you are prettier than any flower,” and it was a sincere and kind compliment, meant to ask for nothing in return, and yet she blushed. And yet, _Helena_ blushed as well, and that in itself was its own gift.

They wandered for a bit more, bellies full of almost too-delicious foods, and yet as the day dragged on closer to afternoon and was getting cooler, they weren’t quite ready to part. They stopped into Leena’s café on the way home for a coffee. They sat in the small corner couch by the door this time, instead of a table and chairs. The couch was a two-seater, meaning that they could both fit quite snugly amongst the pillows, and although they were in the company of only Steve and Leena, they were near the front of the store, and Saturday did tend to bring in a fair few patrons for the odd coffee.

They pressed themselves up tightly into the corners, the armrest and backrest supporting them. With enough room to cross their legs and not have awkward feet bumping against each other constantly, it was rather perfect. Helena settled on a cup of tea, simple and soothing for the soul, while Myka had a tall mug of coffee, feeling the calm of the day slowly beginning to edge her into sleepiness. She still had to iron her washing from the day, and tend to those flowers in her sink, before settling in to read for the evening. She did not want to grow tired too soon.

In the other woman’s company, of course, that was very unlikely to happen. They chatted about mindless things, and Helena learnt more about Myka’s upbringing. Colorado Springs was not as sore a subject to delve into when Sam had already been spoken of. She still had to pause and regather herself when talking of him, but she was quite fine a moment later, referring to talk of her sister, or the history of the city and the parks she spent a lot of her time at, its towering chestnut tree the loving shelter that she and Sam would read under.

Helena would nudge her foot to Myka’s when her face grew sullen, or lit up with a pleasant memory, smiling at the woman whose curls bounced around her shoulders from over the rim of the fine china tea cup in her hands. In the secluded yet still open enough eye of public, soft and tender foot nudging was their own little flirtatious banter.

When conversation lulled again, and empty yet still warm cups sat in hands and laps, Helena let her eyes wander away from the younger woman’s face, which she noted felt odd, as she had not done it very often that day. She looked at the detailing in the door, the small furniture around the café, and the artwork that added the pops of colour that kept the warm atmosphere alive. She looked from piece to piece, recognising in them the art deco design that she had seen in the city posters in Myka’s bookstore. “Did you buy these artworks for Steve and Leena?” she asked, and Myka answered quickly, having been following Helena’s eyes around the space.

“Steve and I went to the same auction together,” she said. “The café had just opened, and I was going to be opening soon as well. So, we bought each other the pieces that we’d each have liked to put in our respective businesses.”

Steve walked over to them, smiling, intent on clearing their empty cups, holding out his hand so that they may hand them to him. “We both liked the art style,” he said. “And I suppose it was a bit of a gift, to someone who cared.” He nodded to them, a wink to Myka, and left.

“ _Someone who cared_ , in a sense means,” Myka began, before leaning into towards Helena a touch. “Someone else like us. Support. Solidarity.”

“It is always good to know someone like us; to not be alone.”

“Exactly. I did return a few days later to purchase my own print, however. One that I don’t even think Steve had spotted, and he was finding all of the art that day, dreaming up the days he would spend in France, or the Caribbean, or even Tokyo.”

“What did you buy?” Helena asked, shifting in her seat to – because the café contained only them – rest her arm along the back of the couch, her fingertips barely at Myka’s shoulder.

Before continuing, Myka flirted her own little bit, beyond the confines of feet and smiles. She tilted her head to the side, the tips of her curls touching at Helena’s fingertips, allowing her to twirl there for a moment, before straightening up again. “It was an art print of London, actually, but not one that I’d display in the store.”

“Why not?” Helena asked, her fingertips straining, reaching to find Myka’s hair again. “Did you not like it as much as the one Steve had bought for you... or was it better somehow? And that’s why you kept it just for yourself.”

Myka smiled knowingly, for it was the other woman who was knowing, and said, “it had a woman at the forefront of the scene, and I didn’t rather think she should be the only person in any of the art, so she’s in my apartment.”

“Where? I didn’t see her,” and while Helena was carrying on conversation, her eyes were watching how close Myka’s hair was to her fingertips, and she bit her lip.

“She’s behind my wardrobe, actually... I haven’t really decided where to put her.”

“Not there.”

“I know,” she laughed. “She’s wearing a coat, long and flowing, and black.”

“Like mine,” Helena smiled, before her lips returned to the pinch between her teeth.

“Like yours. I rather think, now that I _do_ actually think about it, that you could be the lady, so,” she paused, dipping her head again and revelling in Helena’s victorious grin at having re-woven her fingers into Myka’s hair. “Perhaps you would like to help me find a place for her?”

Helena stopped her playing for a moment, her eyes finding the other woman’s again, and she blinked, that coy smile still there. “I’d love to.”

While the afternoon had been melting to relax into, allowing both women to simply enjoy each other and learn about one another, Helena looked at the clock on the wall as Myka returned to her corner of the couch, and sighed. “I’m afraid that I’ll have to be leaving you soon, Myka. I have... some place to be this evening.”

“Oh... that’s alright. I must tend to those flowers, after all. But,” she began, before shaking her head, dismissing the thought. “What about my London Lady?”

“Next time,” Helena said, standing to pull on her jacket. “I promise.” She walked Myka home, and oh, how slowly they crossed the street to get there, and then she was gone. Until Monday night when Myka would call her, as directed to by the Englishwoman herself.

~ ~ ~ ~

Walking herself back up the stairs of her apartment, Myka stopped at the top to survey it. Barely anyone had ever been in the space with Myka. Pete a few times, but always with the intention to leave shortly after as those times were mainly on a wild afternoon of weather. He’d come up for a minute or two, to outlast the latest rain storm and accept another glass of milk, and then be off as soon as he could, more often than not with a new white moustache. Steve, Leena, even old friends from college had never visited; they may have visited the store, but not necessarily just Myka. Not even her parents had seen the place she now called home, for they had never even been to the city.

They were apprehensive, to say the least, when Tracy wanted to make the trip up to see her sister. Myka had been so excited and had fallen back into the fun of her childhood for those few days that she had Tracy with her, staying in _her_ apartment, and visiting _her_ store, that was in _her_ city. She felt that she could call it her city, for no one from her past life had ever infringed upon it, and so it was as if she were the first to ever venture to Chicago, and in a sense, she was.

But soon enough, Tracy had to leave, and it was back to just Myka. Just Myka’s home, and her little store, in her such-large city that she hadn’t even explored that much of in the four years that she had lived there. Four years, she’d think, and not even four visitors. Helena was number three, and for a moment Myka wondered about how she had thought to stay another year in Colorado Springs after...

After Sam died, she was unsure if she should finish out her pre-law degree before leaving to find herself, or lose herself, or just be _by_ herself. She had tried for a few months, but as the school year was about to finish, and she still had another ahead of her – but was finding it hard to focus and do her job as a student well – she dropped out and applied to universities in Chicago. Her mother had cried, and her father had not, Tracy was angry at her for a long while for daring to leave, but Myka took comfort in the fact that Sam’s parents thought it was the right thing to do. Her pre-law degree had involved English and so she’d simply continued that in a whole new course focussed specifically and solely on it, and not looked back.

She’d wanted to, a lot, but never did, for as sad as she was to be in a new city all alone and without Sam’s words and hands to push against her shoulders so that she got up in the morning and went to class, she knew that she would’ve been worse off if she hadn’t left at all.

So, Myka had been in Chicago for four years, and had now only tallied up her third visitor – perhaps only her third friend – and it felt nice, yet weird. She would go to an auction, she told herself, and purchase some decorative partition to hide her bed – and perhaps an extra bookcase – and she would sort out that little dining room of hers so that she could invite her visitor-friend people over more often. She should return the favour and invite Pete and Amanda to hers for Sunday roasts; Steve and Leena might like to pop over after a long week for happy hour before heading back to their upstairs; for the weeks where Helena could not spare a day to venture across town, Myka would insist that she come over for dinner instead – and she would make extra for that ever-devoted driver, Artie, for his troubles of driving Miss Wells home so late at night.

She positively hummed from head to toe at the idea, and made a plan to mention the dinner idea to every one of her people that she came across over the next week. Pete and Amanda would be next, but for the time being, she had Helena freshly in her mind, and was determined to get out that London Lady artwork for when said other London Lady was to visit her again.

~ ~ ~ ~

“At the risk of sounding like a broken record player,” Pete directed at Myka as he set the table the following Sunday evening. “You’re glowing.”

She didn’t deny it this time, nor dismiss it with a shrug, but rather smiled brightly at him with wine glass in hand and said, “I am, aren’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to admit that I never much bought flowers unless it was for my mum on her birthday, but since writing the fact of Myka getting them on the regular, an equally regular chunk of my money goes towards flourishing my room with flowers as well. Wow. Her impact! xo


	9. NINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the telephone romance continues to blossom, as do the flowers that Myka buys for herself. The flowers she buys, thinking of Helena and how she may like them, be softer than them, smell sweeter than them...  
> Some more of the world that Myka evolves in and revolves around; books, friends, suggesting books to others, new friends, and then, we shall call it another date.

****

The sound of a telephone ringing had always terrified Myka. In fact, telephones in general – apart from their immense scientific fortitude and genius – terrified her. The one she grew up with, in the small house above the bookstore in Colorado Springs, had such a shrill ring to it, which was only amplified by the long and mostly bare hallway that it sat in, and it was terrifying. No matter where she was in the house – or even the store providing that the connecting doors were open – she could hear it; it could reach her.

She did not know why it was that she was especially haunted by such an invention; it was fantastical, and she truly admired the minds that had produced even an ounce of the idea to create it. She was the most upstanding and outstanding young woman at her schools, and everyone in town practically doted on her as if she were a personal relative. She was a golden child to the generation above her, while also simultaneously being the most indescribably strange thing any of her own generation had known.

She had been a little impulsive as a young child, and continued to harbour slight traces of that – exampled by those tendencies to sneak about in the dead of night, even if it was only for books – but with every odd look her classmates had thrown her way, or with every harsh yet wayward comment about her, she seemed to button-up a little more, even quite literally. She was liked but she had no friends to really speak of. Tracy did, and so she really ought not to have said that her sister was her own friend, because Tracy didn’t much appreciate that association when she was intent on being liked by her own generation in particular.

So, when that god awful telephone screamed through the hallway, Myka had no idea, and certainly no _reason,_ to be terrified of it. Perhaps it came simply from anxiety and the impending doom of human interaction, but she seemed to manage that in her day to day life, so why indeed did the telephone spell her demise? There were certainly no angry teachers from school calling to report to her father of her misbehaviour. Nor was there any furious shopkeeper from down the road calling to inform Mr Bering of young Myka’s almost criminal behaviour at perhaps stealing a bag of lollies, or a tasty sugar bun from a bakery. That god awful scream did not mean that she was ever in any kind of trouble.

And it certainly never meant that she’d have to cancel her most important Saturday evening plans of reading Dracula, Frankenstein, The Time Machine, in lieu of spending time with friends; catching a movie or going to a diner for ice-cream. That was what Tracy was doing once old enough, but Myka? Well, Myka thought that she would never have a need to own a telephone in her life. Why would she?

No one was wanting to talk to her.

Even with Sam, she much preferred to talk to him in person, in private, for as much as the shrill telephone ring bounced off every wall and echoed into nearly every room of the house above the bookstore, so, surely, would her voice, even at a whisper – for a whisper was a more interesting tone to be listening in on. No, with Sam she would ask him to save it for the next day. On occasion, she did cancel her reading plans for Saturday nights, for Sam and she rather liked it, just like she supposed Tracy enjoyed hanging out with friends and cute boys.

As much as she still didn’t like the telephone nor how anything – regardless of if the telephone was involved at all – could be heard in that hall, its ringing no longer terrified her. Because it might be Sam calling.

When he’d gone to war, she went back to hating it again, just about as much as she hated the post office. She wanted to hear from Sam, but no one else in relation to Sam; not the army at all, nor the government, new war buddies, superior officers, no one. Because if it was about Sam, but not said by Sam, then it was bad, and the ringing was bad enough, let alone what might be said if she picked it up to end it.

She had tried not to buy a telephone for the store when she’d set up, but Pete convinced her. She was still not entirely sure how he had, only that he had, and she had a dusty blue coloured telephone sitting on the corner of her desk. Something so expensive usually would not sit so precariously, and yet if it broke, she wouldn’t mind at all. Thus, it sat just there.

~ ~ ~ ~

Monday night came around, after Sunday roast and Pete’s kick under the table when Myka’s mind had wandered too far, a piece of carrot dangling on her fork. She had been thinking about Helena – of course she was – and Pete could tell – of course he could – and Amanda had asked her a question to which she had not responded, hence the kick. She woke up in the morning with a bruise and was forced to wear thicker stockings than usual, which ended up as an ideal situation as the fire was proving difficult to keep going what with wind whistling down the chimney and constantly putting it out. Her legs needed the extra warmth.

Monday night came around, and she was in her pyjamas again waiting for six o’clock. She sat at her desk just before quarter-to this time, with her red beret pulled to the side over one ear, allowing the other to be free for the phone. She was also wearing Sam’s varsity sweater, which she hadn’t in a very long time, but felt closer to him suddenly, most likely from having shared his memory with someone else, someone new, someone. Pete knew of him, but she hadn’t cried about Sam in front of Pete at all. Wept, yes, but not cried so much that her nose began running and her body went so numb that she didn’t even shake. Helena had seen that. Helena now had a part of Sam with her.

The clock ticked over, and she dialled, enjoying Helena’s “hello, my dear Myka,” on the other end. _Her Myka_... they talked of their days and Myka whined about the bruise on her shin and how it was Helena’s fault, and the Englishwoman apologised and promised to make up for that as well.

Tuesday passed rather uneventfully. Myka thanked whomever was watching her that she had reached the crux of _All’s Well That Ends Well_ where she found the plot most enthralling, for it helped to pass the time. Pass the time, she told herself, before she could kick off her shoes and continue reading her play in the comfort of her bed. She’d stop every now and then to tend to the store she ran, served customers, and simply took a breath from the Helena of her book to think on the Helena of her heart.

She thought back on the conversation they had shared the night before, and how in the midst of random topics, Helena had mentioned childhood trips to the English beachside town of Brighton, where they would spend far too much money on the carousel. She could only imagine a young Helena Wells, full of life and giggles, running away from her brother – because they’d now talked about him too, and how Helena hadn’t heard from him in far too long – to the safety of the horses that grinned as they bobbed around the attraction. Myka looked up to her poster of London, and thought that the wall beside it could be occupied by a poster of Brighton, if she ever managed to find one. She would endeavour to do so.

But for the rest of the afternoon, she had worried children coming in to somehow force the last ounces of knowledge into their brains before the final days of examinations for the year. After excelling at her own studies throughout her educational career – so her father liked to call it – she rather enjoyed being a sort of tutor and person for advice and abundant knowledge when the teenagers that frequented her store needed it. She locked the store’s door long after five o’clock that evening, having stayed behind to assist a few students who were feeling the stress particularly strongly.

Her body was aching, and her eyes were tired, and her skin barely minded when she had an ice-cold shower that evening instead of taking the time to boil water and have a warm shallow bath. She was simply beyond tired enough to care. Her pyjamas were warm, however, and so was her leftover dinner. She was finished and ready for bed, her eyes opening up a little in anticipation of reading, and then in horror at the obvious absence of said book from her bedside table, from even her kitchen table or counter. She didn’t even bother to pull on her coat, instead only her ankle boots before running back down to the store for the book she had so oddly forgotten and left there.

In only the light of the street lamp outside, she picked up the book, its dog-eared page smiling up at her as she clutched it to her chest. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, squeezing it even closer still. She let out a deep sigh and turned to return upstairs, but just as she was at the door, the phone rang. It’s unexpected and shrill ring – _when will they invent a phone that isn’t as aggressive,_ she wondered – startled Myka intensely, and she almost dropped her book as she swore. Not sure as to whom it was, nor how long it would take to return to her warm bed, Myka locked her store door from the inside and turned around.

She stood over her desk, and continued to hold Shakespeare to her chest as she reached down and answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Myka?”

“Helena? Why are you calling me?”

“I...” the Englishwoman stammered. “I didn’t think you’d answer,” she answered meekly, and then changed her tone to interrogate. “What are you doing down at the store so late?”

“I forgot my book.”

“Myka!” Disappointment, this time. Myka laughed, though. “Busy day had you leaving Shakespeare downstairs?”

“Exactly. I only popped down to get it quickly, but then you called,” Myka explained. “Why _did_ you call?”

“Oh... I...” and Helena was back to stammering an answer. “I was... thinking... about you... all day.”

“All day?”

“Yes,” Helena answered softly, and Myka felt as if she could hear the other woman’s heart splitting open, as if it hurt to admit feelings. As if she had been harsh and cut-off for so long, that it hurt to be soft, to be loving...

She knew the sound, because she felt its whisper in her own heart, too. “I was thinking of you all day, as well.” She melted into the gentle and rather lengthy sigh that emanated from behind the static of the phone call. She rounded her desk and pulled the chair out, settling down and allowing the cool seat to send a shiver through her. It only seemed to be amplified by how she felt that she was melting and relaxing into Helena. “How was your day?”

“Rather average, I’m afraid. Less tiresome men today, however.”

“That’s good, then,” Myka responded, for in her mind it was genuinely good news.

“I still can’t believe Myka Bering forgot her book.”

“I will have you know, Miss Wells, that it rarely happens.”

“That doesn’t make it better!” Helena practically shouted, and sent Myka laughing.

“Why are you so personally affected by this?” the bookkeeper asked through her laughter.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Helena answered, laughing a little – a lot – herself now. “Perhaps I think it’s simply funny.”

“Well, _perhaps_ ,” Myka countered. “I was meant to forget so that I would be down here when you called. Perhaps I was meant to, just so that I could hear your voice,” and she laughed again, more silently this time, when she heard a practically romantic whisper make its way through the line in return.

“Meant to be...”

Quiet befell them for a moment, the music of static and soft breathing playing for them instead.

“Why were you thinking of me?” Myka ventured, her voice almost as soft as Helena’s whispers.

“A man came in today-“

“Ah, a man,” Myka said in her best disgruntled voice.

“Agreed, however,” Helena continued. “He was in the army, he told me, and while he never fought in Germany like your Sam,” _my Sam..._ Myka remembered; her eyes welled up. “It made me think of him just the same. I’m not entirely sure as to why, but...” a pause, the whisper returned a hint. “I thought of you because of it and I simply couldn’t let you go. I didn’t want to let you go.”

“I would like a hug right about now,” Myka said, her voice a little squeaky.

“And I’d like to give you one.”

They hung up not long after, retiring to their respective beds and without hugs nor someone to hold in return.

Wednesday was fast-paced, for both women, but whereas Myka’s afternoon slowed down after the lunch rush, Helena’s continued to bustle. Again, she came across one too many, two too many, too many men who talked to her as if she was not who she most certainly was, giving her the reason and the opportunity – while they intended to compare _things_ to each other rather than engage in civilised conversation with her – to escape to a telephone.

Myka was resting her chin in the palm of her hand, finishing act two of _All’s Well That Ends Well_. She dangled a pencil between her other hand’s fingers. She paused, and brought the pencil down to her page, running a line under a word, then a few until she met the end of the sentence. Her phone rang. She picked it up with the hand she had been resting on, continuing to stare at the words, pencil poised between fingers. “Hello?”

“Hello, Myka.”

She looked up from the page, and straightened her posture; pencil down, eyes bouncing about the room but not focussing on anything in particular, and then... her eyes landed on London. “Helena,” she smiled, and the woman in question could hear the smile in Myka’s voice, and it made her smile, too. “How are you?”

“Stressed, as per usual.”

“Men again?”

“Isn’t it always?”

“Pete would disagree.”

“Of course he would,” Helena sighed.

“But Amanda would not,” Myka laughed, and Helena did as well. Pete was kind, a _nice guy_ , but still rather frustrating at times. “Did you want me to give them all a stern talking to; is that why you called?”

“I would very much appreciate it, Miss Bering, but no. I’m afraid they would not listen to you either,” and there was sadness in her voice that she supposed would be in every woman’s voice for a very long time to come. “I really just called to hear your voice.”

“I’m glad that you did. Although, I rather think that I’ve been hearing yours all afternoon.”

“How so?” Helena asked. “You haven’t bugged me, have you?”

“Heavens no! Only that I am reading Shakespeare again, and his Helena’s voice now sounds like yours. I hear you when I read her words now.”

“Are they good words?” Helena wondered.

“The best of words.” They talked for another few minutes – all that Helena cold spare before having to begrudgingly return to the rambling of men – and Myka hoped as they were about to hang up, that she might be able to call Helena the following night as well, as they had managed three days in a row of phone calls, so perhaps they could make it four.

“I would love it so very much, my dear Myka,” and the bookkeeper’s heart fluttered ever so. “But I am to be working late tomorrow night, and I would rather not have you repeat a night like last night in that you are in your store all alone after dark,” and she had no idea why, but she added an, “alright?” at the end.

“Yes, dear,” Myka answered, and Helena supposed that that was why she had added it.

“We can try again next week.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Thursday morning was bleak, and the rain chased Myka downstairs earlier than she’d have liked, simply to start the fire far ahead of time that any customer would be walking in. It was before nine, the sun barely looked like it wanted to rise at all and she was begging it to from the window of the store. “I did, so you must as well.” It ignored her.

She sat at her desk, in her cold, cold chair and looked back over her shoulder to the rear of the room where the flickering glow from the fire reflected onto the floor. Once polished floorboards now too scuffed and drying to repair, and so she covered it predominantly with rugs. And bookshelves, obviously. She looked at Shakespeare’s play on her desk, sitting in the centre, and her phone rang. Helena must’ve known she was staring, she thought as she picked it up. “Good morning, Helena.”

“I felt terribly that we wouldn’t be able to talk tonight,” Helena rambled; rambled far too quickly as if she had been having the argument with herself and called Myka half way through simply to include her in it.

“Did you really?”

“I kept wondering about when I might be able to slip away at four o’clock to simply call you for a half a minute.”

“A half a minute would have been torture,” Myka groaned, because Helena would’ve been gone all too soon if that had been all it was.

“So, I am calling you now.”

“Although, I am to make it half a minute long, because I have to open the store soon.”

“Must you?” and Helena was the one groaning now. They were echoes of each other, it seemed; the same, simply _one_.

She did, painfully, and they hung up soon after wishing each other a pleasant day and – blushing – the promise of tomorrow’s phone call, whenever that would be. Myka thought that she’d stay in the store forever just to hear from Helena again.

Friday was the day it changed. Not everything, for some things were the same as usual: the morning rushed with customers intent on finding a good book before the weekend so that they were entertained, the lunch-time rushed as well with bored business-people simply coming in to escape, and the afternoon lulled out so much that Myka resorted to her daily coffee over at Leena’s. She could sit on the stool of Leena’s counter and talk to her while Steve was his effervescent self with the customers.

The two women didn’t talk very often, perhaps only at length on those slow Fridays, and Myka twitched her nose because of it. She had her weekends always spare, and while Saturdays of late were Helena’s, and Pete had her Sunday nights, the rest of her time was simply hers alone. Saturday nights, Sunday mornings; she could always invite her neighbours, for they were so conveniently her _neighbours_ , over for such occasions.

“Do you still have those cards?” Myka asked in reference to the deck of playing cards she had gotten the other woman (who’s hair was even curlier than hers) for her last birthday.

“Steve and I play with them most nights, actually, just while dinner is on the stove,” Leena smiled, soft in her daily routine with her best friend, _her_ nice guy. “Why do you ask?”

“Bring them around for dinner sometime next week. You and Steve, and I’ll make something hearty for a winter’s evening.”

“We’d like that very much.” Myka was also acting on a little suspicion she had with the other woman; Leena had once noted – hence the cards for her birthday – that she was interested in poker, saying how well she should be able to play based on how well she could read people.

Myka never used to feel much, and therefore her face never relayed such feelings, but of late, with Helena’s having her Saturday’s and pretty much every other minute of her weeks, and even Pete being able to read on her face that she was feeling some sort of way, some sort of _soft_ way, she wanted to know just how much her feelings and thoughts could be read by someone who made a casual habit of doing so.

Just before two o’clock, she returned to her store, having spent almost a whole half hour on the stool while slowly sipping her coffee. Usually, she would up and leave when a potential customer approached the bookstore, but even as there wasn’t one that Friday, she thought that she ought to return across the street just the same. The afternoon was going to be just as slow as it had already proved to be, and Myka found her mind wandering to the side of someone across the city before she had even unlocked the front door.

The store was cooler, as the fire was dying down... again. The day had continued to be as bleak as the week before it, setting the tone for the remainder of the week, but today there had been a cutting wind as well. It flew down the chimney like it had on previous days and was constantly putting the fire out, or simply filling the store with smoke. Myka put it out completely, scowling at it for not doing its job on such a rotten day, even though she had to. She returned to her desk and decided to make it five days in a row, picking up her phone.

Unexpecting to have Helena answer, as it was technically the middle of the working day, she thought it good to at least _try_ for five in a row. She could always call again later that night, despite how Helena had told her not to be downstairs after dark. She was planning at what time she might return downstairs, in her pyjamas and long coat, after Helena would be long home and hopefully not long fallen asleep.

Unexpecting Helena to answer, Myka practically dropped the phone when she did. “Helena?”

“Oh, hello, Myka. Fancy you calling me,” she said, with no surprise in her voice, for she had gotten into a habit – a bad one she would try to convince herself – of her phone bringing Myka with its own shrill ringing.

“Fancy you answering,” Myka retorted. “Why aren’t you at work?” for she had called the only number given to her; the one to the telephone that sat in Helena’s own little apartment beside the couch.

“I... was given the afternoon off. I have a business thing tonight, so they thought it kind to give me some _me time_.” Helena shook her head at herself after her voice, not wavered by her lies, made its way to Myka’s ears. “What about you? Is the afternoon so slow again?”

“It is,” Myka grumbled. “And it’s to remain as so until I close, I’m afraid.”

“How so?” and it was perhaps one of Myka’s new favourite things in how genuinely inquisitive Helena sounded whenever asking those two words.

“Well, it’s the last day of school examinations today, and so there won’t be any students by to study; not when they could be finally relaxing with friends.”

“And Peter?”

“He’s off to the mall further into town this evening, with his girlfriend. They’re shopping for engagement rings,” Myka said, and even she could read how excited she was. Her voice practically squeaked, just like it had when she’d first found out about the impending engagement.

“Oh, how lovely!” Helena exclaimed, and the shared joy made Myka smile. “Alas, you are left alone for the afternoon.”

“I am.”

“And I.” A soft silence fell over the line again, as was usual for their phone calls. They simply settled into each other’s breathing, which was also comfortingly usual. “I don’t even have a book to read since finishing Alice.”

“Oh, really? I must give you something new to read.”

“Myka, I will _buy_ something from you.”

“Nonsense!” was the response.

“I will not have you losing money on books just too keep me entertained,” Helena protested.

“They’re gifts, I have decided.”

“Am I allowed to repay you in the form of croissants and coffee, then?”

 Myka hummed as she thought and finally agreed. “I can accept that.”

“Good. So, what shall I read next, Miss Myka?”

Myka pondered for a moment, before realising as she thought she should have in the first second of thinking, that her own favourite book might be a good place to start. They talked of _Murder in Mesopotamia_ for a while, Myka insisting that it was her favourite because of the wonderful mix of history and beautiful words. Helena did not interrupt, only let Myka talk and get excited by a book she confessed to have reading over a dozen times. While she had decided that books were her gift to the other woman, Helena decided that it was simply Myka who was the gift for her.

When the bookkeeper was exhausted, entirely by her own self, a silence befell them again. Then Helena said, the talk of far-away lands having spurred the thought, “it’s days like these that remind me of the museums in London, and even New York. Not that I could have afforded to go to those.”

“Could you afford to now, do you think?”

“Oh, I do hope so, but I’m not sure as to when or even if I’ll ever return to New York.” She paused and breathed a breath that told Myka her thought wasn’t finished; her sentence was only half done. “There are too many sore memories there.”

“Sore?” Myka asked, for she had her own but was yet to hear of Helena’s.

“Those memories used to bleed and sting, but I am healing.”

“Good.”

“So, now they are only sore. The scars could split so easily though...” and her breath levelled out uncomfortably.

“Helena?”

“I’m here,” the Englishwoman said, for she had returned to the present, had returned to plainly sore, and not bleeding.

“Could you afford Chicago’s museums?”

“Why do you ask, Miss Bering?” and Myka was glad to hear the other woman’s smile in her voice.

“Spend the afternoon with me,” she said in response, knowing that it was pointless to ask a question when she knew the answer.

“Which museum are you taking me to?”

~ ~ ~ ~

The steps to the Art Institute of Chicago were frosty. Usually, the sun would thaw them out, but despite Myka’s coaxing for it to rise as she did for the last two days, it had not. As it was, most of the icy-ness had been heated away simply by the feet of people who trekked up and down them. Her feet were trepidatious to hasten up them too much, and so Myka stuck to the rails and relied on her arms just as much as her legs to help her ascend to the front doors of the museum, where Helena stood waiting for her.

Helena stood, and with the dying wind of the day catching in her naturally falling hair – again no tight curls and gloss, but a soft gloss nonetheless – Myka knew that no piece of art within the building they were to venture into would match the beauty of the woman she would be walking in with.

She rather thought that she was right, having to tell herself to look at the art that Helena was looking at, and to recite whatever knowledge she had on it, purely for education purposes, she said – although she did so very much enjoy how Helena complimented her brain. She also, again noticed, that when she did let her eyes fall from the artwork to the woman beside her, dark eyes were already on her. “How do you know?” she asked, for they had become close, and she could ask these things now.

“How do I know what exactly?” Helena asked in all seriousness, seemingly too distracted by her longing gaze at Myka, for Myka, that she was indeed perplexed as to what the question was referring to.

“When I look at you, you’re already looking at me. How do you know when I’m going to look at you?”

“I don’t,” and now it was Myka’s turn to be perplexed, obliviously. She quirked her head to the side and furrowed her brows. Confusion. “Oh, Myka,” Helena began, stepping off slowly to round behind the taller woman to whisper. “I’m simply always looking at you.” When she reached Myka’s other side, looking over her shoulder to smile almost innocently up to her, she saw that cheeks were flushed, her expression was baffled.

“Why?” was all that Myka could manage.

“Oh, Myka,” Helena echoed again. “Do you have no idea how truly breathtaking you are?”

Myka looked about her nervously, quickly, glad to see that the only eyes in the vicinity were those from the paintings before them. They were alone, and so she could allow herself, she supposed, to listen to Helena saying such things to her in public.

“You are stunning, and in this building of art, with statues of goddesses, paintings with rich colours and emotion in the paint, you steal my gaze. No...” and Myka sadly shook her head as Helena said. “No, I give my gaze to you. I find art and magic in you.”

And oh, if they had truly been alone, if they had truly been somewhere that eyes could not find them, that ears could not listen to them, if they were truly safe, how Myka would have let her bashfulness fall to her feet with the nervously clutched handbag, stepping forward to take the other woman in her arms and kiss her.

But alas.

Lest they risk too much in even staring at each other for too long, they stepped off and continued around corridors of art. At some point, they turned a corner and entered a temporary exhibit on the art of Persia and Mesopotamia and Myka all but passed out from joy, excitedly remembering the book in her purse, and handing it to her companion as they were surrounded by the art and beginnings of the land and time said book featured.

The exhibit was far too small for Myka’s liking, and soon they returned to the corridors filled with “ordinary art,” she called it. She was still enthralled by the detailing and precision of such art, however, and focussed intently on it as Helena was beside her. The ordinary art, Myka pointed out, also had, “too many men.”

“I agree,” Helena whispered, and they shared a soft chuckle. “However, this man in particular looks rather like a man I know.”

“What men do you know?” because she’d never heard Helena talk of any specific _man_ ; had only in her mind imagined Helena surrounded by women.

Helena grew serious and beckoned Myka aside, to a bench by a wall and sat her down. “I must tell you something,” she said. “Tell you before anything develops from a friendship to anything more,” and Myka’s heart skipped a beat for a multitude of reasons. “I’m seeing someone.”

“Oh,” and it was shocked and hurt and more heartbroken than either had expected Myka to be at that point... of friendship.

“He’s married.”

“So you’re... cheating... with a cheater.”

“No, and yes.”

“Yes and yes,” Myka clarified a little harshly.

“No. And yes. I am not cheating.”

“Because we haven’t kissed,” Myka whispered bluntly.

“No, because he is aware of his infidelities, and does not inhibit me from seeing whomever else I wish.”

“How good of him.” She was sarcastic. She had to be, but didn’t want to be so she continued, “then what’s in it for him?” because there had to be something.

“A sort of business arrangement,” Helena answered, too easily like she had been planning this conversation, or has heard those exact words from this man herself.

“Business.”

“Of sorts.”

“Of which you can’t tell me,” Myka prompted.

“Not yet.”

“Not ever.”

“Myka,” Helena said, her own sort of prompt. “I will tell you. I’m doing so much so that I will be able to tell you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. Trust me.”

“I do. And I feel like a fool.”

“You’re not a fool.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever,” Helena said. Final. “As long as I meet him for certain things, appointments, and... things that aren’t appointments-“ Myka sighed painfully. “Then I am free to see and potentially kiss whomever I please.” The woman beside her sighed again, but softly, understandingly, or in surrender. “It works well for me, and it’s selfish but I _need_ things to work well for me.”

“I want things to work well for you. I want you to be happy.”

“You make me happy,” Helena smiled, her hand coming to rest on Myka’s knee.

“You make me happy, too,” Myka echoed, her hand resting atop Helena’s. It was daring, a risk, but both needed it in that moment; both were worth the risk.

“I’m not cheating.”

Myka nodded, understanding the statement and accepting it as best she could. “Be honest with me.”

“Always. I may omit things at times,” Helena said, her eyes falling to her lap. “But please believe that I have reason for it.”

And Myka, having omitted things herself, and having fair reason, simply said, “I believe you.” She did. Unlike the quiet in their phone calls, the silence that cast over them as they sat with hands on knees and each other was awkward.

_Be honest with me_ , Myka’s words played in Helena’s head. There was more to be said, more honesty to give. “He has a child as well; Adelaide,” and Myka who was perhaps already too shocked with the mere news of a ‘someone else’ stayed quiet at this additional fact. “She’s only three years old – almost four as of Sunday – and I’m not sure...”

“About?”

“I feel as if he’s kinder than most men I meet,” – she almost gagged at her _own_ choice of the word ‘kinder’ but continued – “because of his daughter.”

“And not his wife?”

“She’s a meek little thing; too sweet to be with him, but I suppose he feels it would damage his image to leave now that Adelaide is in the picture.”

“You’ve met her?”

“I’ve met them both. Adelaide more times.”

A thought occurred to Myka, and she asked, “those children’s books you bought from me... were they for Adelaide?”

“They are. I’m... meeting-“ and Myka began almost aggressively shaking her head.

“I don’t want... um...”

“Sorry. My point is, if there’s a point in making me point?” she began – asked – and Myka looked up to her with soft eyes; hurt, yet soft. “They’re going away for the weekend and so I am free... practically yours for every minute of it, if you...”

“If I want you?” Helena nodded, her own eyes soft and hurting because she had caused hurt. Another silence, to absorb every meaning of every word just spoken.

“How do you feel?” Helena asked, finally removing her hand from Myka’s knee for safety.

“Unsure.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Explain more. Explain why.”

“Myka...” and it was a gentle warning; _not yet_...

“I could really go for that hug we spoke of the other night,” Myka said, a tired laugh behind her words.

“That,” Helena said after a moment, standing. “I can help you with. Follow me.” She stepped off, looking back over her shoulder only once she had reached the edge of the room again, beckoning with a slow, apologetic blink, for Myka to follow her.

For someone who hadn’t ever been to the museum, Helena found her way about extremely quickly, leading them to a small corridor off a main hall, of which above them hung a sign designating that the restrooms were down that small corridor. Helena walked down it, the natural light of the museum fading until there was only the low glow from the wall light. Myka followed her, her heart rate beginning to pick up, to grow erratic and deafening.  “Helena,” her mouth whispered, without any edge of her voice behind it, only breath.

The Englishwoman slipped into the unlocked women’s bathroom; a small washroom ahead of two stalls that could barely fit one person comfortably, let alone two, as Helena’s continued slow blinks seemed to imply she was hoping for. She lent herself up against the far wall of the space, the tiny room, and with one quick and nervous look about her and down to the end of the low glowing corridor, Myka slipped inside as well.

She closed the door, and then – after pushing off the wall with the back of her shoulders oh, so coolly – Helena reached behind her and latched the main door. For a moment, Myka worried why they had not taken up space in a single stall should someone need to actually use the bathroom, but also didn’t much mind which space they occupied together as long as there was a door keeping them hidden. The door was locked, and they were alone in a small space with only each other. Myka breathed in, but it would not calm her heart. She remembered her schooling and the strong words of the adults who she was surrounded by as her young mind was being moulded, and thought of how what she was feeling in her body, what she was craving and desiring to do with those feelings, would have been called sinful.

Perhaps it was, but with Helena’s hands sliding up her arms to round jutting elbows, caress the backs of her upper arms and scratch along her shoulders, she wondered how anything so heavenly could be regarded as sinful. She felt short nails at the nape of her neck, and the delicate press of Helena’s chest against hers. With such fine touching, barely the first flicker of a candle, it was hot enough to singe her skin. “You burn me,” she whispered, and the scratching at her neck stopped.

Helena looked up to Myka, the driving intention of her actions halting at those words. Such a soft flame, and she melted, like the wax of that candle, into Myka, against her, _onto_ her. Arms slid around the taller woman’s shoulders as she raised up onto her toes, feeling arms wrap around her in return. She pressed lips to Myka’s shoulder, then the bend of her neck, the point where she could feel such a strong pulse, and then the softness under her bookkeeper’s ear. “You burn me, too.”

Myka’s body was alight. She could only wish as fiery lips pressed to her neck that they would mark her as well, but not quite, not yet. Her hands began to ache as she clung to Helena, more intensely than she had ever used those hands before. She was melting, but not wanting to drown, and then in an instant, grew angry, worried, jealous. She slowly, painfully, pushed Helena away; as far away from her that was possible in such a small space.

“Myka...” and she could see that Helena’s lips were reddened. Perhaps her skin really had burnt her.

“I’m unsure,” Myka echoed herself. “I want you,” and she lowered her voice because even a whisper seemed to carry. “I want you so much, but I’m unsure. I need to think.”

“To talk to Peter?”

“Maybe. He is my other me at times. Please don’t think poorly of me-“

“I don’t,” Helena insisted, her hands coming from the cold of the tiles behind her to Myka’s warm skin.

“But I do not do well with impulse these days. I need to think.”

“I understand,” and she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to bring angst, I really do, but I really love it because there is no Myka and Helena without the drive and distance to and between them. There is no THEM without angst, so here it is in a more immediate way that will only grow to be a rather constant of the story. A constant, for we need a plot in some form, and we need a reason for them to fight to be together. So let's darn well fight for it then! Lemme know what ya be thinking xx


	10. TEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No blurb or anything but when I wrote and then every time I read the first little scene, I cried so... am I good writer? Am I just an emotional wreck? You decide. Hopefully both but more likely just the latter! Enjoy (and weep (and then get excited!!))

**March 1940**

“Mama,” a croaky little voice asked, muffled a touch by her sweet mouth buried into the pillow.

“Yes, my love?” Helena asked, her voice not at all croaky, her eyes tired instead. She had not slept much all night. She had woken many times to Christina’s nightmarish tremors, whimpering as her poor body fought a fever. Until that small voice murmured, Helena had been watching her rest peacefully for the last few hours as the morning broke. Now, she reached over and tucked a curl behind a little ear.

“When I die…”

“Shhh,” Helena beckoned. It was only a fever; one which her daughter would come through the other side from in another day or two. “Don’t speak of that, please.”

But, “when I die,” Christina continued, with soft intent in her small four-year-old voice. “I would like to come back as one of those cats that sit in windows.”

“Oh,” Helena said, not really sure what to do with it. “A house window?” she ventured.

“A bookstore.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Her bed was warm, her apartment was warm, but her hands were cold. They’d been cold all evening and her _kind_ man who looked like that man in the painting had noticed and laughed about it. “What’s wrong, Helena?” he’d asked, and she had been foolish enough to answer instead of shaking it off and rubbing her hands together.

“I’ve let a friend down, I feel.”

“You feel too much,” was all that he offered, and she missed the woman she’d spoken to that week five times in a row, who would’ve asked what she meant, and how she might help fix it – if only it was to listen to those feelings. Even the man who drove her home. Ever faithful Artie who drove the silver Rolls Royce and was genuinely kind enough to allow the confines of the car to be sacred. Nothing said within would ever leak out. Helena thought herself lucky to have perhaps two nice guys in her existence, even if they both did not exist at the same time now. Maybe that was the rule: a woman was granted as many nice guys in her life as possible, but only one at a time. Amongst the hundreds of men she’d come across, sometimes in the one day, only one was nice. That sounded about right.

Perhaps she did feel too much; not all at once – although she had had those times – but in general. “No,” she’d said to the gentleman, because he wasn’t hers and she didn’t necessarily want him to be either. “I rather think too much.” He hadn’t retorted, or heard. He was back to talking to the other men in the room. She smiled a smile, as was her job.

Only much later, when she was in her warm apartment, with its warm bed and her again cold hands, did she allow herself to think, and feel. She remembered the afternoon she had let happen, the woman of magic and art she had let be left alone on icy steps with not yet frozen tears in her eyes. They had walked out of the museum shortly after their hug. Could it even be called a hug, she wondered, if she had so fervently intended for it to grow into more? She was glad that it hadn’t; she doubted now that she _thought_ instead of _felt_ that she would’ve wanted her first taste of Myka’s lips to be in the tight and unbreathing space of a museum bathroom. She deserved better than that. Myka deserved better than that.

She was also glad to have not kissed her at all, because it made the fight in her head a little easier to not be so tied up.

They had walked out with enough space between them to fit an entire person; well, perhaps not that far apart. Maybe only a small child between them, and Helena remembered looking down between them at a space that could’ve been and she was sorry. For so many reasons. She was sorry to have thought of it, to have thought of it with _Myka_ there, and to have wanted so badly to return to the safety and silence of her pillows at home so that she may cry. She was so sorry.

She could feel bleeding again, but knew that if she ignored it, the feeling would return to sore. She hadn’t known what to say to Myka when they stepped outside. It was beginning to rain and she could see the silver Rolls Royce pulling up to the curb. She looked into Myka’s eyes and could see that the other woman was hoping she would say something.

_I’ll call you tomorrow,_ Myka thought, but did not hope. _I’ll see you on Monday?_ Even if the other woman was unsure, was asking. _Something,_ she hoped her eyes were pleading. _Anything that is permanent... a plan_.

But all Helena could say was, “I’m sorry, Myka.” She walked down the stairs as carefully in rainy and icy weather as she could, leaving her bookkeeper behind. She could see in Myka’s eyes the pleading for a plan, but she only had the time for one plan at the moment, and oh, how she hated time.

The silver Rolls Royce was warm and although her hands were cold she could feel them begin to perspire against the not-as-cool-as-usual leather seats beside her. She was breathing in and out slowly, methodically, until she heard, “are you alright, H.G?” She closed her eyes in a paused blink, and opened them, looking into the eyes of the driver that reflected back at her through the rear-vision mirror.

“One plan at a time,” was all she said, and he nodded, assumedly thinking that one plan was for the best.

And so, she sat in her bed, staring ahead of her in her bedside lamp light to the small table out the door and across the way, where her phone sat. She’d sandwiched her hands between her thighs so that they went numb instead of craving the feel of Myka’s phone number under her fingertips. She didn’t sleep much that night.

~ ~ ~ ~

The sun did not wake Myka on Saturday, for although she had tried with all her might, it had not risen for her that week and therefore did not deem the favour necessary to return. She woke up by herself, instead, just after eight. The rain was back, and thickly clung to her window. Snow was on its way. From her side, she rolled to her stomach, one arm flattened underneath her weight. The rain was tapping on her window, asking her to get up and go to the markets.

But it was Saturday, and she did not want it to be Saturday, because Saturday was Helena day. She did not know if she wanted to see Helena. She didn’t much want to think of her either, but her heart was so pressed on feeling of her that Myka’s brain really didn’t have a choice. The flowers from last week that she’d repositioned to the window sill by her bed told her that she needed to get up though. Lilies. That Helena had distracted her from and then smelt like after flirting with her by the dozens of them at the markets.

She sighed.

She did not want to get up. She did not want to do anything except bury her face into her pillows and whine to herself, about herself. So, that’s what she did. “Such good quality pillows,” Pete had muttered when he’d been helping Myka move in over a year ago. He’d thrown the pillows into the air and caught them firmly, expelling their air in a solid _oof_. They were good quality pillows, and the downing was too thick for her to stay under for too long lest she pass out from lack of oxygen.

She pushed herself up to her elbows, letting her raggedy curls bob and fall around her face. She tried to blow them away. It did not work. She fell back down to her pillows, defeated.

After rolling about for another five minutes, somewhat trying to fall asleep, somewhat trying to even simply stop thinking, and finding that nothing was going to go her way that day if this was how the morning was going to be, she got up. Her bed was made, her coffee was had and her toast was aggressively munched, and the flowers were thrown out. She washed up her breakfast things and then the vase last of all, then went to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

The markets were slower that Saturday, as was to be a predicter of the winter to come, but the flowers were still as beautiful as ever, maybe even more so. They were always beautiful. Helena was always beautiful. Myka rolled her eyes at herself and how she could remember and _tell_ exactly which spot the Englishwoman had been standing at the week before when she shot Myka that coy smile.

She deliberated on which flowers to get that day, which would cheer her up and _not_ make her think of Helena, but it was a lost cause, especially when Hugo asked if she was alone this weekend. “Yes, I am,” she said, trying not to sound... anything but fine with that, like it was the usual – which it was – and that she wasn’t disappointed that she was in fact alone – which she was. She settled on a bouquet of lavender-coloured roses, a rarer option for Hugo to have at his markets, but they must’ve been there just for Myka.

She smiled as she exchanged money for the wrapped flowers, until he said, “love at first sight.” Her lips wanted to purse, because of course, they meant that.

Of course, the rare and sweet looking flowers that Myka thought would cheer her up and even distract her from her distraction, meant that. Meant that her distraction was every other distraction she would ever have. She commanded her lips to maintain the smile, even telling them to behave as she wished Hugo a good rest of his day. Once her back was turned, they pursed however, and she begrudgingly muttered down to the delicate petals, “meant to be.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Myka cleaned her apartment in record time – not that she’d relay that to Pete as the highlight of her Saturday – and was down to the store to clean before half past ten. _The Hollow_ was due for its shelf shuffle, yet again, and because shuffling around her Agatha Christie books was perhaps her favourite weekend task whenever it came around, she left it until last. She cleaned, and scrubbed out the soot from the fireplace – getting most of it on herself instead – and decided to properly clean her rugs for once.

When they had been affordable for everyday people, Myka’s mother had wired her enough money to treat herself to a vacuum cleaner. She rarely used it, finding that sweeping did a more than satisfactory job for all of her hard-wood floors and short-haired rugs. Yet although she couldn’t see, nor really feel any great amount of dirt in the rugs, she supposed that dust is finer than she could feel, and she had just carried a large amount of old ash across them. She might’ve vacuumed herself while she was at it, if that was at all a normal way of grooming one’s self.

Alas, she simply decided to change her clothes when she was up in her apartment to collect the vacuum cleaner, planning to put a load of washing on afterwards. It was a noisy contraption, and she imaged that little Myka who was terrified of the phone ringing would have run clear out the store door if confronted with the machine. Even as it was, she was unnerved and intent on finishing its use as quickly as possible.

When she could, she turned it off and all but dropped it by her desk, walking as swiftly as she could without running back to her now clean rugs to inspect. Half-an-hour-ago Myka was wrong; she should’ve been able to feel the dust, because oh, how practically new the rugs felt under her hands as she crawled around the store. She was sure that any passers-by would find it quite an odd sight to see a grown woman crawling around excitedly with a fascinated grin on her face like a one-year old child who had just learnt how to do it, and gosh darn, if they weren’t going to crawl their diapered self around everywhere.

But she didn’t care. She did love cleaning, and although it took her longer to do the store than usual, this was definitely the highlight of her Saturday, and she _would_ be telling Pete that.

Finally, it was time for Agatha Christie. “Hello, my love,” she said as she carried the two remaining copies of _The Hollow_ over to the section. She first read a Christie novel when she was reprimanded and told not to read anything above her age. ‘Silly, frivolous crime novels written by a woman’ were fine however, and while she’d picked out the first one begrudgingly, after a few chapters, she was in love. Silly, indeed. _Peril at End House_ was that book, which had just come out the year of her eleventh birthday. By the time _Murder on the Orient Express_ came out two years later, she had read everything she could find from Miss Agatha Christie, whether in her father’s bookstore, the school library or any other place that sold books that her long legs could carry her to.

“This was a very good one,” she told the silly female novelist as she made a space for _The Hollow_. “Three reads of it this time. I needed the perspectives.” She stood back and looked at them all once shelved neatly, and she smiled. It was a melancholy smile, and she stepped back to the shelf, running her fingertips softly, lovingly over the spines. _All those murders_ , she thought. _All these dead people and their dead dreams, their dead one-days_. Sure, they were more often than not bad people themselves, having committed a crime of some sort and therefore had justice coming for them, but still. The dreams. The one-days. The meant-to-be’s that were stopped in their tracks. _Why can’t it be easy?_ She thought, breathing deeply, intent on the impending deep sigh to follow, to cleanse.

“But was life ever going to be easy, bunny?” she heard Sam retort in her mind, and she smiled, releasing the sigh a lot more softly than she had intended. She had not had his voice in her head for a very long time. She had missed this part of him.

“Thank you, Miss Christie,” she said. “And thank you, Sam,” before stepping away and slumping down into her chair to slouch and stare.

She stared at her phone, and after a moment, thinking again of her own meant-to-be and the lavender roses up in her apartment, reached forward and picked up the receiver. She didn’t need that piece of paper anymore, nor the long-gone etchings on her arm. Her fingers knew the phone number like... well, like it was exactly what it was: the phone number of the woman of her affections.

“Hello, Helena,” she said rather solemnly when the other woman answered – even her greeting sounding a touch less cheery than she usually was.

“Myka,” and that wasn’t cheery either. It was glad, relieved, softened, apologetic, loving. “How are you?”

“Sorry.”

“Myka, no,” and it was harder. Determined, and adamant. “It is I who am sorry; immensely sorry.”

“You have no reason to be, Helena. You had no way of knowing when we met that... something would develop. That you would be caught between two people.”

“Actually,” Helena said, her voice dropping an octave in seriousness, confession. “I did.”

“You did? Really?” Myka stuttered.

“I did. I knew the very first moment that I left my apartment with intention of stepping back into your store.” There was again a silence; again a silence that told Helena to continue. “I rather fancied you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, if I’m being honest. And I do want to be honest.”

“But I was tired that afternoon,” Myka responded, as if it were a credible reason to poke holes in Helena’s argument.

“Adorably so, I recall. I do so very much love your French twists, mostly when they are falling down.”

“Helena, stop,” Myka said, a soft laugh in her voice. “I’m blushing.”

“Well, there’s no customers to see you blush, though.”

“That is true.”

“I’m glad you are blushing,” Helena said after a moment. Her voice was sad this time, and Myka had always found it ridiculous when characters in her books could bounce through emotions as quickly as flicking through the pages of the book they were in, but now she understood it. Now she felt it.

“It’s always because of you.”

“I’m glad about that as well.”

Myka thought of those books, of those characters, and how she found them incredible in feeling so many emotions – particularly those revolving around love – and that was why she had never been able to read all of the Austen’s in her store, and gravitated instead to facts, evidence, and science in her books. Of course, Agatha Christie’s stories weren’t always one hundred percent factual, but they were more believable for her mind. She realised in that moment, with all the emotions in Helena’s voice, that perhaps she wasn’t meant to read Austen’s or Brontë’s with her mind, but rather with her heart. “I could hardly enjoy my Saturday morning at the markets,” she finally said.

“Oh dear,” Helena mumbled.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of you and your devilish smiles by the flowers.”

“Devilish?” Helena practically barked in laughter.

“I bought a bouquet of roses from Hugo today; lavender ones. He rarely has any other roses but red, white and yellow,” Myka rambled unnecessarily.

“They sound lovely.”

“They mean ‘love at first sight,’” she said, she _told_ Helena. There was silence, and it carried Helena’s emotion. She was touched, reflected in Myka. “So, I suppose I was meant to buy them. It was-“ and they both uttered the words, “meant to be,” together.

“What are you doing tonight?” Helena asked, in a hastened voice.

“Nothing. I mean, I’m reading, but I have a sneaky feeling that you’re better than whatever I’m reading,” Myka said, and her heart was back to beating fast and not at all in a constant rhythm. She might very well have a heart attack because of this London Lady.

“Oh, you are too kind, Miss Bering. I simply wondered because I do have the weekend to myself.”

“You said.”

“And I thought that it might be a weekend to _ourselves_ if you might also want it to be. I rather think of Saturdays as my Myka days of late,” and the admission practically did give Myka a heart attack. She pressed her flattened palm to her chest, pressing in firmly and stifling what she would call a scream if she hadn’t been able to stifle it. “Did you want to meet me for a drink or two, some jazz and maybe a few of those _devilish smiles_?”

And it was pointless in stifling anything else to sound the least bit calm, because she knew that she would not be able to manage it. “Yes,” Myka blurted.

“Good. Then dress smartly, Miss Bering, for I shall swing by your place at eight for a night of devilish debauchery,” and these fantastical words were simply going to be too much for the simple bookkeeper, let alone the actions that such words implied.

She had some wine in her fridge upstairs. She thought that she may need to have a drink or two before eight o’clock rolled around.

~ ~ ~ ~

Promptly as eight o’clock rolled around, her foot began tapping as her lip was nibbled and her hair twisted by her ear. She could not simply sit calmly on the edge of her couch or her bed while she waited for Helena this time. Usually, a simple phone call was the end result of watching the clock so intensely – even though she had been deathly nervous of that first one with the other woman barely even two weeks ago. Now, she was to be _seeing_ Helena, and _sitting beside_ Helena, while she looked like some sort of goddess – Myka was sure – and she... she did not. “Dress smartly,” she had said to herself as she opened her wardrobe door that evening. She had put off deciding on an outfit until the sun went down, but was also sure enough to set aside at least three hours to get ready should she not be able to decide at all.

After the phone call had ended around midday, she had headed back upstairs and pretended as best she could that all was normal. That she wasn’t to be going out to a club of all places that very evening. She had made herself a sandwich with leftover ham from dinner and cheese. She toasted it in her pan and almost burnt it despite staring directly at it the entire time; Helena was on her brain again, obviously. She ate it quickly, barely enjoying the rich cheese that she was so fond of.

The afternoon consisted of washing, reading and glancing up from her page to the London Lady poster that stood in front of her bookcase by the stairs. She continued to underline phrases in her play, occasionally just a name. Her name. The only name that mattered. She hurriedly dog-earing the page, closed her play, before sliding it across from her on her bed’s comforter.

She needed to breathe.

She needed to metaphorically take a step back and remember that barely a day ago she had heard news that wasn’t as sweet to her ears as everything else Helena had been saying was. She needed to remember that while she was taking a risk, pushing herself in lieu of Sam’s hands at her shoulder blades pushing her, or even Pete’s, she had still been hesitant.

Helena had told her of something that wasn’t a simple opinion to get around – preferring lemon in her tea to honey, for example – but was a fact that made life moving forward a little bit more difficult, a little more precarious; more than it already was. Helena was not _dating_ or necessarily promised or tied to anyone in a serious essence of the word, but she wasn’t free. She wasn’t completely available to give her heart, to give kisses and more to anyone and to that person alone.

She felt a pang of anger strike through her at the fact; the fact that she had been made to feel special, but that perhaps...

At sunset, she had opened her wardrobe. “Dress smartly.” She owned skirt suits, travelling suits, a nice pair of slacks from college and more blouses than she knew what to really do with. She only needed seven at most, she had ever told herself, for there were only seven days in the week, and yet now as she was frustratingly searching for something _smart_ but with potential emphasis meant to be on the word _dress_ in Helena’s instruction, she counted twelve. Twelve blouses, and none of them really suitable for a club.

Hell, who was she kidding. She fell backwards completely bewildered by herself onto her bed, a large breath of air tumbling from her lungs. A blouse should not be worn to a club. A tweed skirt should not be worn to a club. She had nothing. She thought if Amanda and Pete weren’t at that moment perhaps proposing to each other, she might call either of them for advice. She smiled at the thought however.

Pete had said that he’d have liked to propose to Amanda at sunset. They’d bought a ring yesterday, and a sunset there was today, for the sun had poked its head out just enough to cast orange and pink across the sky, framed by those fluffy and wispy clouds. She was stressing about blouses and that she owned too many, while Pete was possibly proposing. She’d promised him that she wouldn’t call him at all, niggling and nagging for details. She would wait until Sunday.

She sat up. Of twelve blouses, there was one she’d only worn once, and that was because Tracy had bought it for her and then told her to promptly try it on. Other than that Christmas, almost three years ago, she had not worn it. She grabbed it out and remembered why she had not liked to wear it. There was no top button. There was not even a button anywhere near the top of the shirt. It was loose-fitting and perhaps a little sheer in the right light, its middle button at her bust masquerading as the top button.

Thankfully she had been wearing an undershirt when trying it on for Tracy, for the family. She would not have wanted her parents to see her chest. Even still, her mother had told her in private not to wear it without an undershirt, or simply not at all. Myka also supposed that her mother would have a word with her sister, enquiring as to where in the world she had even gotten such a revealing garment.

Now, she supposed, that such a shirt with no real top button and that was ever so soft to the touch, might be exactly what she should wear to a club. A club that she was attending with Helena.

She was still at a loss for what she should cover her lower half with, however. This skirt was too long, that one was too dull, that other one looked a little odd underneath a flowy blouse and without its matching tweed jacket. Glad to have set aside so many hours, and to have had that bottle of wine to sip at, she began trying on all appropriate skirts with the blouse and discovered that her knee-length blue pencil skirt made of a fine linen looked indeed smart, but also rather dapper. If only she had slacks in that material, she thought as she tucked the blouse in.

She stopped all of a sudden, when she fuzzily realised – those sips of wine turning into decent mouthfuls – that she was without a bra under her blouse. No undergarment, and she had completely forgotten even her under-undergarment. She took a drink of wine and laughed at herself, waltzing back to her bedside drawers to retrieve one. She decided on a sweet lace one of an off-white colour, edging closer to her natural pale skin tone instead.

Once properly dressed, including her stockings and all other appropriate bare necessities, the clock said that it was almost seven, and that she should eat something. That much wine was not going to allow her to stay awake nor enjoy the evening as well as she could or should. She made a simple dish, one that wouldn’t stain her nice and practically new blouse.

Not soon enough, it was eight. Her feet already sore from nervous tapping, and her everything else simply nervous, she bounded from the couch when she heard a car drive down the street, but pull up outside. She stood beside her dress-coat, a lot nicer than the one she wore every day, and when there was a knock at the door, she grabbed it, flicked the kitchen light off and headed down, her simple black high heels carrying her down noisily.

Before she opened the door, she pulled her coat on slowly, so as she didn’t catch her sleeves and grow stressed. Helena was a vision, and she glowed in the street light. Myka had decided on the very best outfit her wardrobe could manage, and still – as expected – she was nothing in comparison to the woman before her. “You’re breathtaking,” she said, her breath clouding in front of them both.

“Come, come,” Helena simply said, beckoning the taller woman to the car and its open door. She slid in and Helena stepped in after her. She’d never been in a Rolls Royce. She’d never been in a new car. She’d barely even been in a car. The seats were soft leather and were cool to touch but grew warm as her hands did quickly enough. The windows looked like mirrors, reflecting her amazed expression as she looked about the cabin, eyes finally locking on those of the man looking back at her through the rear-vision mirror.

“Hello,” she said, her breath hurried and carrying her amazement.

“Myka, this is Arthur-“

“Artie,” the man interjected.

“ _Artie_ ,” she clarified. “Artie, this is Myka Bering.”

“Good evening, Miss Bering,” he said, kindly, with a jolly and slightly wonky smile. From what of his own expression she could see – and much was simply his far too bushy eyebrows – he struck her as sincere, and well-intended. She liked him.

“Good evening, Artie.”

The drive to the club across town took little over ten minutes, and Myka spent most of it looking out her window at the city as it passed by. She had never seen it like this. She liked it. After a while, and she had taken in as many of the glimmering lights that blurred by as she could manage without feeling her stomach drop, she turned to the woman next to her.

Helena was in a tight purple gown, satin and shimmering, its neckline concealing whatever dangled from the long golden chain around her neck. She had over her shoulders a white and grey fur that Myka hoped was fake but knew probably wasn’t and that always glossy hair of hers was back into its tight curls, bobbing beside her cheeks as the car made its way through town. Myka now felt an idiot; why was she spending so much of the drive staring out the window when _this_ was an arm’s reach from her? She reached out that arm and touched Helena’s wrist that stuck out from underneath that fur. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” and the other woman’s voice was concerned in an instant, placing a hand to Myka’s thigh. She liked that too. She felt that she would like a great many thing that evening. “Are you not feeling well?”

“No, Helena,” Myka laughed, her voice an octave higher than usual – the blame of that wine still floating down her veins like gondolas on a Venetian canal. “I’m sorry that I stared out the window, instead of at you.”

“Oh, Myka,” and Helena joined in on the laugh.

“You’re breathtaking.”

“You said that already, darling. But thank you. As do you.”

“Hush,” Myka shook her head. “I’m practically in what I wore to my graduation ceremony. I am, as far as the skirt goes.”

“And you look absolutely gorgeous,” the Englishwoman whispered articulately, leaning in towards Myka a little. She trusted Artie, with her life just about, but there were still some things said by a woman that were for her lover’s ears only. _Almost lover_ , she corrected herself. And by almost, she’d meant that Myka may have been in another timeline, hopefully would be in this one, but she couldn’t help but feel as if the opportunity, the chance at love with Myka was one that had somehow already passed. Thus, almost.

The club was bustling, and Myka could hear it all from outside the doors. They swung in, and it was mesmerising. Clarinets were playing low, eyes turned to them and smiled, but went back to their own company and drinks quickly; there was a band on the stage by the far wall. Opposite it was a bar, extending practically the length of the room. Myka felt, all of a sudden, as if she had been living her life in the depths of a shadowy forest, the wary eyes of prey looking at her from behind trees, and finally she had stepped out of the other side of it. There was sunshine here, and air, and _colour_ , and people that weren’t prey or predator, but the same species as her.

People in suits danced with people in dresses; people in dresses danced with other people in dresses; suits and suits, men and women, women and men, and it was mostly the women in the suits. A few men were in dresses and Myka could not help but gawk at them all. They were beautiful. It was all so beautiful that she felt she may cry. “What is this place?” she whispered to Helena who had rounded from behind her to now in front, shoulders bare. She was beautiful.

“Welcome to The Warehouse. A place of endless wonder,” Helena said.

“I had no idea there were places like this in Chicago.”

“There are plenty of places like this in Chicago, my dear. One simply does not tell others about them. They wait, they learn, and then they show,” to which Helena swept her arm out in front of her, inviting Myka to gawk, and stare, and smile wider than she already was. “Once leaving places like this, it is as if this place does not even exist. But,” she began again, stepping off the entrance step and heading slowly toward the bar, passing through small crowds and smiling to people, greeting people with a simple touch to their arms.

“But?” Myka prompted once they had reached the bar, hopping up onto a pair of stools.

“But it is important to know, that while these places technically do not exist, it is so very important that they do. This is a safe space for so many people.”

“Helena,” a deep voice came, and then appeared across the bar from them. “Nice to finally see you here again.”

Helena shot the woman a sly smirk, a silent retort of sorts. “Myka,” she said, without taking her eyes from the other woman. “This is Mrs Frederic.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Myka said as boldly as she could, and yet she was sure it still came out nervous.

“No need to be worried, Myka,” the woman said. “You are amongst friends here. What can I get for you?”

“Um... I’m...” she stammered, not even really thinking about this part of the evening. She had been drinking wine all evening, and practically all her drinking life – or would her father call that her _drinking career_? – and was unsure what to try first in stepping away from that life. Taking on the next. “Whatever Helena is drinking,” she ventured, and both women nodded.

“Vodka martini, stirred,” Helena said with a smile. A moment later, they had their drinks and they were alone.

“Where did Artie go?” Myka asked through the burn of her throat.

“You really have never been to a club,” Helena joked, laughing a little at how hard Myka was trying to stay cool. “He most likely took himself to a movie of some sort, then a diner for a meal. He’ll entertain himself until midnight.”

“Midnight?”

“Is that too late for you, Miss Bering?”

“No,” and again it was a venture, nervous and questioning. Helena laughed again before leaning over and pressing a kiss to Myka’s cheek, soft and purposeful. Oh yes, she was to like many a thing that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, another first part of a bigger chunk of chapters; I had to keep you interested, intrigued and wanting more, otherwise I probably would've written it all as one long chapter. Tell me your thoughts? xo


	11. ELEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 to the previous chapter; everything starts to pick up, the music, the sexual tension, the everything, and then (as it is inevitable to be) it crashes. But it does not burn. The only thing that burns is their love, remember...

The music picked up after a few drinks – or perhaps it was already upbeat and Myka simply had to be swimming in vodka as much as it was swimming in her before she was bopping along in her seat with the tunes – and now there was less clarinet and more brass. Trumpets reverberated through the room and up her legs to her...

Helena sat down at their little table towards the rear of the room, near a staircase that led to a sweeping mezzanine that encircled the entire place. She had two more drinks in her hands. Myka had barely finished the one in front of her. She smiled this observation to Helena and enjoyed that coy smile in return. “Miss Wells,” she began while as casually as possible cradling her yet-to-finish drink in her hand. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Me? I will have you know, Miss Bering, that I am an upstanding citizen of society and do not spend my evenings getting impressionable young bookkeepers intoxicated.”

Myka offered a hum in return, suspicious. “No?”

Helena leaned in towards her, a hand running up along the side of her blue skirt teasingly. “No. Just the one bookkeeper actually. Just you,” and as if the outer of Myka’s thigh was not sensitive enough, Helena’s hand retracted, curving to the top and then edge of her inner thigh as well. Thank goodness for the taught of her dress, Myka’s shuddery breath said.

The trumpets continued; the saxophone joining in made her feel the story being told instead of listening to it. She favoured vocal jazz, but somehow suspected that simple instrumental jazz was what she was supposed to listen to when vodka was the only thing passing her lips. The saxophone tumbled though her and oh, how she could feel the harsh scratch of her skirt’s stitching against her thighs. She crossed her legs, pressing skin to skin, and breathed out. Her throat was hot, and then her lips were. They were dry, and she knew that she could moisten them with a quick lick, even a reach of her hand to procure the other martini, but the saxophone tumbled and she stared so blatantly at Helena’s lips, wishing that they would moisten her instead.

“Wait,” she heard and she breathed in, as if that was going to be enough to make her do so. “Myka,” and she was still staring and growing hotter and hotter – one, because her eyes were still latched onto plump, nervous, red lips, and two because she knew the world told her that they shouldn’t be there – so she blinked. Her eyes remained closed and she focussed on the stitching against her thighs, but then the sensation melted away.

She was focussing on the thread in her skirt and how the dark colours contrasted her skin. That skin, her skin was slyly, dangerously touched by another’s. Material was no longer burning into her skin as much as Helena’s fingertips were, then her whole hand.

“Now you stop,” she said as she opened her eyes. Helena’s hand vanished, and she was left wondering if it had ever been there at all.

They finished their drinks and Myka forgave herself in advance for taking the path her footsteps were now treading down. Her hands were in her lap, as Helena’s were in her own, but she knew that both did not want that to be so for much longer. Myka busied herself with looking at the stage, intent on watching the excitement of the players build as they played, and yet they were setting their instruments down and assumedly taking a break. A man stood at a strange box by the stage however, and turned a few knobs until music played. Myka had seen them. Wireless radios, but much larger, grander and more expensive than she had ever been able to afford. Severely bulky contraptions, and yet the music carried well across a crowded room.

She felt a tap at her shoulder, and turned to see Helena preparing to stand. She had seemingly been focussing on something else as well. She looked up to the mezzanine and whispered into Myka’s ear as she stood, “meet me up there.” She found that she must have looked a little bewildered as to Helena’s request, for the Englishwoman leaned down again to whisper more elaborately, “meet me up there so that I can kiss you.”

Not at all bewildered then, Myka watched her leave, turning back to the wireless, heard the first words uttered by Frank Sinatra, and stood herself. Her small clutch tucked under her arm, she squeezed past people and through small conversations apologetically until her feet found the steps of the staircase, the lingering smell of apples and fudge practically begging her to continue upwards.

It was darker upstairs, more dark than the bare-minimum lighting of the club, and it was encouraging. It was true that they had been in a club, perhaps one of the only true spaces where any gentle touches and looks of flirtation would be the norm, and yet they still had to behave. Myka was drunk, and while she had had alcohol before, she was only ever a little tipsy. Now, she was drunk, and everything felt electric. The dark staircase, the feel of the polished wood rail under her hand, the silence of her steps along the rug of the mezzanine.

Everything was vibrating at a scale far higher than ‘out of ten’, or of ‘five stars’, or any other rate she could conjure up, and it was encouraging. She met Helena at the rail a few meters from the top of the staircase. “Surrender,” she heard Helena say as she leaned over the rail a little to look at the room below. “Why don’t you surrender?”

“Because you keep stopping me,” Myka said. Not at all what the next lyric was, but an answer. “How long can your lips live without a kiss?” and she was asking herself as much as she was asking Helena.

“This isn’t even the song that’s playing.” Myka hushed her, closing the distance to the other woman’s side, her hand sliding across satin and then the top of a bare back.

“It’s always playing in my head,” she said, and Helena began to turn to her. She looked down at the Englishwoman’s bare shoulders and melted, surrendered, leaning in just enough herself to press a tender kiss to pale skin.

“It’s almost midnight,” Helena said, a strained moan trying to break through, but rudely kept at bay.

“Now listen to the song playing,” Myka commanded. Frank Sinatra asking for a simple kiss, a simple few moments longer of his love’s charm, five minutes more. “Just five minutes more,” she whispered, and pressed a kiss to the shoulder again. Her lips were going to be utilised the entire five minutes, or whatever time she had to do what she wanted; next a kiss to the curve into Helena’s collarbone, her neck, the jut of her jawline, and with that she brought her body as flush to the other woman’s as was possible, but then it was pulling away and pulling Myka with it.

Helena’s hand clasped tightly to Myka’s dragged her down a nearby hallway – even darker still – and then through a door that had a kind little cut-out of a woman on it. This bathroom was most definitely bigger that the museum one; enough to even have two extra private cubicles behind swinging door. Myka stumbled in, the sound of her heels on bright white tiles too loud. It was deafening almost, but silenced by the sharp lock of the door. She looked up to Helena, the other woman’s hold on her hand less urgent now, more welcoming, asking and granting those five more minutes at the same time.

She watched Helena take a breath, her brows furrowing as if pain was striking her. Myka reached beside her to place her clutch on the counter, and stepped to her, her shoes quiet, and her breath heavy. “Helena,” she whispered, wanting to know so deeply what thoughts were plaguing her.

“Kiss me,” she heard, and so she did. Her worrying lips pressed to the wrinkles of Helena’s brow. She couldn’t be sure if she heard more words, something reminiscent of ‘you burn me’ and other utterings of fire, but she didn’t have time to ask. She only had five minutes – perhaps four now – and Helena grabbing at her waist, hips nudging into each other, and a face so desperate and full of surrender tilting up to meet her. “Kiss me, Myka.”

Myka knew what it had been to kiss someone before, to kiss someone she loved, and yet it was something so anew that her lips barely knew what to do once there. She felt that she froze, and yet when thinking – and goodness, how hard it was to _think_ for she was floating too far away from her brain to function properly – she felt her lips moving against Helena’s, as if they knew what to do, as if _she_ knew what to do.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that she did know what to do. She knew what to do and what she wanted to do and had known for weeks now, and so she did it. Helena’s shoulders were gripped, and she was edged backwards to the locked door and pressed against it, braced against it so that Myka could edge her way down and wind eager arms around a tiny waist as eager lips begged, asked, were answered, answered in return to every move and hum that Helena’s lips made. The satin beneath her deftly sweating hands was soft, but she felt it a lie; Helena’s skin was softer than it could ever try to be.

Those hands slid, flowed over Helena’s body, pressing at the side of breasts and sharp ribs, looped under her arms and pulled teasingly, determinedly at the back of her dress, almost enough to rip it. She ran fingertips against that soft skin and could only dream of the moment they could touch every part of it; running along curves and around knees, elbows, hips, down to ankles and back up to around the gentle dip of her back; from freckle to freckle; from the palest of skin to the warmest of taught nipples, and into ocean dark hair.

But for now, in only two minutes, maybe even one, she had Helena’s lips, she had her hands on her, tugging at the flow of her own blouse and wishing it to come out but knowing that it shouldn’t, not yet. Myka pulled away from the kiss just enough; just enough to have the other woman chase her and pull her back, hold her close.

She’d kissed someone before whom she loved very deeply, feeling everything deeply, but this was different. Helena was different. She was deep as well, yet not simply blood deep, or even bone deep, but somehow age deep as if time didn’t matter and never had, and yet it had been kind enough to have them happen upon each other at the same moment, the same era, the same age.

They did pull apart eventually, when footsteps could be heard down the hall, pausing near the door, walking away to wait. Five minutes was too short a time, yet also so long ago, and they smiled at each other before leaving. Myka was so happy but as they edged outside and began to descend the stairs, she looked at Helena as the memory, the ghost of that furrow at her brow was still there. Mrs Frederic said her goodbyes, and the band was back on the stage once more – which made Myka feel a little angry for having to miss them again when she’d really like to stay longer.

Artie was waiting for them outside, and Helena let go of Myka’s hand, which she rudely realised had been there since before they left the bathroom. She had been back to thinking again instead of feeling. Sitting down into the plush of the leather seats suddenly made Myka sleepy, and so – because she liked Artie after all – she leaned across the small middle seat and lay her head on Helena’s shoulder, obstructed again by that fur. It smelt real, perhaps that was the first of the things she would soon not like about the evening.

She’d liked so much, _so_ much, but now it was ending. She didn’t like it ending, she didn’t like having to stop kissing Helena, she didn’t like the fur – it looked nice but she knew that a nice scarf could keep one just as fashionable and warm – and she didn’t like that Helena was quiet again. The furrow was back, and she reached up to press her fingertip to it. “Stop,” she whispered, and Helena smiled down at her as best she could. “Don’t let tonight end with frowns.”

“I’ll try not to, my love,” Helena said. Myka shifted her chin so that she could breathe in, and breathe in apples and warmth, not fur. Helena leaned in to her to make it easier, to also make it harder, and so Myka pressed a kiss to the edge of her throat, enjoying the slight moan that tickled her lips. It was a sad moan she realised too late, and sat up to ask Helena about it, to ask her to keep answering as they headed up to her apartment that night, to ask if Artie would be able to collect her tomorrow and let Myka have this for a little while longer. But it was too late.

They were half way home, and Artie had looked into the mirror a few times too many to simply be being road safe. “To Miss Bering’s apartment, Miss Wells?” he asked, the air of professionalism.

“Yes. To Miss Bering’s. She needs sleep.” Myka sighed but understood. They’d have other days to be together, to nuzzle and talk of the fur and sad moans.

“And then where are you staying this weekend,” Artie continued. “Your apartment, or,” and Helena stiffened. Myka’s heart dropped unsurely. “Mr MacPherson’s?”

“Arthur,” the Englishwoman practically scolded, and his crazy eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

“MacPherson?” Myka asked. She’d heard. She’d read, and she’d heard. “Not Nathaniel MacPherson?”

“Myka...” and she wondered why Helena hadn’t simply said no. If it wasn’t him, she would’ve said no.

“Oh, my god...” and the small seat between them was too small. She needed space. She needed air. She needed to get home and lock herself away to scream and pace about how Miss Helena Wells’ someone else was a criminal. Was a man most likely a murderer. Was a part of a New York family of gangsters. “Stop the car,” she said.

“Miss Bering,” Artie’s voice broke through. “It’s only another few minutes til your place and it’s snowing.” She sat. She told herself that a few minutes wasn’t hard.

But then Helena spoke, and she was reminded that she wasn’t alone with her thoughts or her inclinations to scream. “Myka, darling-“

“ _Darling_? Please, don’t.” The car turned down a street and it was dull and miserable looking, but familiar. She was almost home. “Stop the car, please, Artie,” and whether it was because she’d said his name, or because her pleading had been emphasised by the new tears in her eyes, he stopped. She got out. She slammed the door and regretted it because she wasn’t raised to do that, but she walked away from it just the same.

She heard another door open and close and then heels slushing through freshly-fallen snow on the road and then the side walk, edging dangerously closer to her. “Stop running, Helena,” she shot behind her, not wanting to stop but also not wanting the other woman to slip and fall.

“Then stop walking away from me,” she heard Helena plead, and there sounded like tears in her voice as well. She ignored her, ignored the tears. She was caught between wanting to walk faster, but not wanting to risk her own ankles, as well as those of the woman behind her who would most certainly speed up as well. “Myka, please, turn around. Stop, please,” and she’d never heard anyone say please so many times in her life – except from her own self – and so she stopped. She stopped and turned around, marching back to Helena who hadn’t expected Myka to do so and they almost collided.

Once Helena had regained herself and Myka was there, words on her lips where Helena had been _minutes_ ago, she let them fall. Their faces were too near each other for a conversation on the street, even in the dark of night, but she couldn’t have her argument, her pain heard by the entire street. That pain was because of Helena, and was to be shown to her alone. “You made a fool of me,” she spat. She shook her head as she took a few steps backwards, and then turned and continued walking home.

“Myka,” Helena whisper-shouted, trying to catch up, trying to help, trying to reason. But Myka walked on, even faster when she heard Helena begin to run after her again, a fragile little skip ahead in her hastened steps. Helena risked reaching out to grab Myka’s hand, succeeding and tugging her back to her. Their bodies came close and her other hand tugged on the edge of her coat, left unbuttoned from the car. “Let me-“

“No,” Myka simply stated, ordered, beseeched. She couldn’t face the aftermath, she couldn’t face any excuse because the result would still be the same. She didn’t turn away from Helena, however, letting herself be fooled by hands on her coat, her waist, tugging her collar.

Helena was playing with fire – still and again – but she couldn’t resist getting burnt.

Understanding that Helena was not going to let her walk away, Myka slowly walked off, Helena by her side until they edged across the street corner to her apartment with the bottle-green door. Artie parked down the way a bit and turned the car off, turned the lights off. Myka unlocked the door and let Helena walk ahead of her inside, smiling apologetically towards the car. She walked inside.

Oddly, frustratingly when the door was closed, when they were on the landing of Myka’s apartment, in the sunny lamp light and the cold of a fireless day, Helena stood, silent. Myka grumbled at the silent woman, removing her coat and throwing it angrily over the back of her chair at the table. She flicked the light on beside the kitchen as if it would help her focus and cope.

“You made a fool of me and I let you; I let you make me believe that I was special.”

“You are,” Helena said with pain in her voice and in her eyes, because she couldn’t start crying now, because she wasn’t the one fooled, because she wasn’t the victim here. Myka started crying however, slow, ripping tears running down her flushed cheeks, and she stepped forward to comfort her, only for Myka to push her away. “Right,” she said coolly. She could see the weak worry in Myka’s eyes, fearing that she’d crumble and let herself be kissed through her frowns, fearing that the comfort wouldn’t stop at simply complicated kissing.

“But you made me feel like I was the _only_ one who was special to you. And I’m so obviously not.”

She let Myka say other things as well; not many things but other poignant things, other words and mumbles through sobs that were more determined than mumbles but that was all that they were. Some things were harsh, accusing Helena of plainly lying and deceiving her. Some things were soft and if they weren’t in an argument then they would’ve only fallen more in love. Instead, they sat hanging between them painfully as if those feelings of love, of affection and kindness were foreign to them both now.

It was suddenly so hard to believe that they had shared their first kiss that night, for it was so short a time ago, and yet the whole world had collapsed before them since. It may as well have been a year ago. A year ago, that they almost met. A year ago, where Helena’s plan hadn’t really kicked in yet. A year ago, where she was available and hadn’t become whatever she was to Nathaniel MacPherson. Oh, how she wished that Myka was just a little bit more greedy and had bought her copy of Alice. She could only hope that now she would be greedy, and not let this be the end of them. “Be greedy of me,” she whispered as Myka continued to pace and talk more and more articulately, not looking at Helena at all.

Suddenly it became all too much for the bookkeeper, and she stopped. She stopped pacing, stopped talking so sharply, stopped crying. She stopped and stood in front of Helena with wet cheeks and red lips, covered in those tears but dry somehow. “Say something.”

Helena thought and felt and ached and blinked her own tears away. She wanted to say, “I love you,” and hope that it was enough for this to not be over. But to do so would only be waving something in front of Myka’s face that she could not grab, that she could not have because they couldn’t have anything now, could they? Trust was not there and anger replaced it. To tell Myka that she loved her would only to be showing her something and then ripping it out of her grasp, leaving Myka to wonder if she did, if it was true, if anything she’d ever said or felt for Helena in return was ever real.

To tell her would only make more of a fool of Myka, and she’d already hurt her enough, too much, because enough would be to not have hurt her at all. So, Helena muttered out instead a simple, “I’m sorry,” and left, because she couldn’t say any more than that. She couldn’t say that she had fallen for Myka or how she had, or anything that would make the situation only the slightest bit better, because nothing would.

~ ~ ~ ~

The door had long closed, and the sound of the silver Rolls Royce had vanished down the end of the street, yet Myka still stood. She stood where she had been when Helena told her that she was sorry and left. She stood where she had felt her heart fall from her chest and the alcohol drain from her bloodstream. She stood until she felt that she had to go to the bathroom, if only to wash the now-dried tears from her face. She couldn’t be sick; her body was too tired.

Instead, she poured herself a glass of water and took a sip from it as she headed to her bed. She took off her clothes, holding her skirt to her chest as she remembered Helena’s hands on it. She hung up her blouse, but then noticed the wrinkles and creases at the back of it where Helena’s hands had grasped at her and craved her body. She took the blouse off the hanger and dropped it in her clothes basket in the bathroom. Her body was cold when she pulled on her pyjamas. Her skin was bumped and turning purple, but she didn’t care. She told herself to care enough to make a hot water bottle before crawling into bed.

Sitting up – which she realised in her approaching sobriety that she’d never done in this bed, only ever laid down or propped herself up with two pillows – she looked at her window. The curtains were thin and old, and one day she would replace them but not today. There was still a glow from outside, the street lamp behaving like a heavenly light to anything it touched, and she wondered how long it would be until the sun possibly began to join it.

She looked at her clock and saw that it was almost one o’clock in the morning. She’d not been up that late or early since she was a mischievous child, sneaking downstairs to read on those Friday nights, Saturday mornings. “What to read?” she asked of herself. _All’s Well That Ends Well_ sat on her bedside table, but Helena lived in there now. Myka needed to read something that Helena didn’t live in. Suddenly, an idea popped into her head and if her brain was trying to suggest things that would take her focus away from her heart’s Helena pain, it succeeded. Now she thought of its Pete pain and the one book she had never finished.

“Well,” she said, rolling over enough to open her other bedside table’s bottom drawer. She retrieved _Mrs Dalloway_ and shuddered at the coldness of her cover, her pages, the thin layer of dust that held her because Myka wouldn’t. She wiped it off and held her now, first in her hands and then against her chest hesitantly. “I’m already hurting, so maybe you’ll give some sort of odd comfort.”

When the sun rose, Myka was on the last chapter, having read rather quickly as if the words were a splinter to be hastily removed. She finished and let out a breath. _Mrs Dalloway_ was a nice story, an important story and while her heart hurt because she had thought of Pete on almost every page, she was glad to have read Virginia Woolf’s words again, heard her voice in her ears.

She had grown a lot since she’d started the story, and the story itself sort of told her that. If she was being honest with herself, she had grown a lot since yesterday as well. The sun was rising, and she had grown. She was bleeding, but she had grown.

Remembering the night before her, the tastes and the smells, the sensations that surrounded her, embraced her and floated through her, she thought that she still needed that fresh air from when she sat inside Artie’s car. She got out of the bed that was now warm, and placed her hot water bottle – that was now cold – on the kitchen counter and headed down to the store with her coat. She sat down at the desk and dialled a number quickly so that she wouldn’t back out, and waited.

“Hello?” Pete’s deep morning voice crackled through to her.

“I finished _Mrs Dalloway_ ,” she said.

“Shit. What happened?” and she smiled that he knew. He knew her so well that when she was lost he’d find her for her again and stay with her until she felt that she was found. He knew her so well that _Mrs Dalloway_ was sometimes used as code for subjects not to be talked of or dwelled on, but that things were okay now. He knew her so well that if she was ever to finish it, it was because something equally as earth-shattering and heart-breaking had happened and any version of Pete was safer, even a bleeding one.

“Helena.” It was true. Whether it was last night or three weeks ago; anything that was happening or had happened was Helena. Helena had shattered her earth and broken her heart and everything else that could ever be done to her. It was Helena.

“I’m coming over.”

He knocked on her door fifteen minutes later and she let him in. He followed her upstairs and accepted the glass of milk. She crawled into bed and retreated into the pillows, wriggling her shoulders backwards until they were covered and Myka’s hair was a messy, crunchy scarf around her neck. Pete sat on the end of the bed, crossing his legs like an attentive school boy and taking a steadying sip of milk before asking again, “what happened?”

A breath, a blink, and she looked up to him. Myka looked him in the eye and said, “I fell in love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, angst. Our good friend. What are we all thinking?? I know it's gonna be shitty for a while from here on out, but I really wanted Myka to reach a point where she turns to Pete as she has always done, and for a woman with so much gumption and pride, I feel like she will only do that when she is at a low point.


	12. TWELVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is always the case, Pete takes care of Myka and Myka begins to heal.

**June 1947**

Her hand was warm around the champagne glass. The champagne in her mouth was warm because of it. Myka swallowed, teeth clenched, and let go of the glass. She waited. Her ankles were crossed tightly and bruising against each other, and she waited. She wondered as she clenched and bruised, breathed in shallowly and out too warmly, if she was not just waiting for Helena, but waiting to be hurt by her. Again. Tragically, painfully, yet still surprisingly, again.

There was a bang of the door as it swung open and a few youngsters straggled in out of the night warmth to the even warmer space of a crowded club. She envied the women in sheerer dresses than her, for they must feel at least a degree cooler than she was at the moment, and similarly pitied those dressed to the nines simply for the flare of it all, even though their brow was perpetually perspiring.

She sighed as she turned her gaze away from the door, not yet presenting Helena to her, and was disappointed at the fact. Her champagne was room-temperature – ruined – but she found her mouth dry. Again. She took a drink, large and throwing her head back until all of her glass was emptied into her anticipating body. She felt both filled with energy, whilst also feeling completely drained of it at the same time. Realising the fact as it was, was in its own way draining all over again.

She waved her hand and one of Mrs Frederic’s lackies refilled her glass; chilled. She wrapped her hand around its base after her first sip and left it there, catching the condensation on the edge of her finger. She brought it up to her lips and kissed the droplets of water away, leaving a gentle mark of her lipstick there. She’d had kisses on her fingertips once before, she recalled, after she’d first gotten hurt. _Or was it the second time?_ They blended into each other too much in her memory now, her eidetic memory that recalled each instance that Helena’s words or actions stabbed her and then kissed those bleeding wounds better, only for it to happen a day later, a month, and now...

Several months later and she had not seen Helena much at all, not dared to take herself anywhere near where the other woman had been. She’d gone to Sunday morning markets instead of Saturday. She’d accepted gratefully when Leena would bring her coffee across the street to her, lest Helena be at the café – unlikely, but not impossible. She’d avoided and changed, altered and tried to forget so much so that Helena or even the sight of her mightn’t ever hurt her again, because she was not at all sure that she would survive it.

And yet, as she had not seen Helena as the weather had gotten milder, the winds eased, and the sun begun to glow against her skin more richly, she felt alive but still hurt. Because she loved Helena. She loved her and was without her. She hurt because her heart begged that her arms would hold her, and her lips demanded to kiss her and taste her, and they weren’t.

There was a life to live she had once dreamed of. Sam was once the arms that were to hold her in summer breezes forever, but that dream ended and was now just a memory. Then, this woman of extraordinary fashion with a tendency to always bare her cold hands just to touch Myka had stumbled into her life, and she was woken up completely. She had begun to live that dream, to live her life and for once, out of the pages of her books. She now imagined that her drabs and lines of words strung together with such taught delicacy at times might make for a novel one day that some other poor fool would fall into.

She had written to help her escape – she had read and written, and read what she’d written – but after some time, found herself at a point where those words ended softly, those thoughts of harsh reality still ended in acceptance and fulfilment, when her life was not. She did not go to sleep at night full of content and warmth, or even a generously moderate temperature. She was cold and blinked at the stacks of new books in moonlight. She had lost the softness that surrounded her in her quiet times, in her noisily distracted moments. She was not content, accepting, happy. She was hurt.

Again.

The door banged open and she turned swiftly, so much so that champagne from her glass sloshed out and landed in her lap. She frowned between her wet, red dress and the lone man that walked in through the door. He was expressionless and looked about the room. Then he spied his friends and his face lit up. Myka huffed a breath and turned back to stare at the counter, downing her champagne. Again. She went back to wondering about the first time she’d been hurt by Helena, because to now think even bitterly of the woman felt good, if only to just think of her at all.

~ ~ ~ ~

**November 1946**

Pete bustled around the kitchen, spinning to the tunes on the wireless after kicking the fridge door closed. He fried eggs and almost burnt toast, and squealed along when the kettle boiled just to make Myka laugh from behind her tucked-up knees. She hugged them to her chest as breakfast was made for her, and when Pete’s favourite song was over – nearly all were his favourite, it seemed – she would tell her friend-cum-chef about Helena. She’d occasionally slip in story points from _Mrs Dalloway_ , simply because they were still fresh in her mind, but then she would return to the other Englishwoman, her London Lady.

“You love her?” he asked tentatively a good while later, when the day outside was bustling and she was placing her knife and fork back down on her plate softly, flush next to each other. She licked her lips just enough to moisten them anew, and then bit her upper as she thought how to answer. She could argue that she wasn’t sure; she could mumble that she didn’t really, she was just caught up in the other woman simply being nice to her; she could not answer at all, and wait for Pete to fill the awkward silence with what he thought instead.

She chewed on her lip, and the silence hadn’t even begun to grow awkward, stagnant and heavy before he kicked her ankle under the table to stop her. “Yes,” she said in the same breath of relinquishing her lip. She sighed, and the silence did drag on, but it was light and understanding.

“But she’s not being honest with you?”

“No.” She had explained as much, but not at all after stating so clearly that she loved the other woman.

“And she hasn’t really given you a reason why?”

And her answer halted. A reason. Helena obviously had a reason, but, “I haven’t really stuck around long enough to hear it.”

“Ah,” Pete said.

“Don’t ‘ah’ me, Pete.”

“I’m sorry, but little methodical Myka who doesn’t want any difficulties has split and run.”

“I have not!” she declared, thrusting herself to the backrest of her chair as she crossed her arms.

“Then why does Helena say she has been omitting truths?”

“Don’t use words that I use on you,” she argued, growing a little tempered, if only because she was severely overtired.

“Don’t deflect the question!”

“I don’t know! Alright, I don’t know why she’s hiding things from me, or not telling me things, but they’re most definitely big things, like _big_ things! Why would she not tell me that she’s...” she floundered her arms about as her mind struggled to find a word that wasn’t ‘dating.’ “Connected to, of all people, Nathaniel MacPherson, unless it was to benefit her somehow?”

“Perhaps, she’s trying to protect you!”

“Well, she’s hurt me just the same,” Myka grumbled.

“Yes, but at least you’re not dead,” and she froze. Pete stared at her, his chest expanding through the soft cotton of – what Myka only just noticed – was an undershirt that he most likely slept in. He stared, and then stood up calmly, removing the empty plates from the table and taking them to the sink to rinse. He placed them in the bottom on the sink and turned off the water, drying his hands slowly on the towel before hanging it back up. Crossing back to Myka, and pulling his chair towards her so that he could place a hand on her knee as he spoke, he took a deep breath. “MacPherson is a dangerous man, Mykes.”

“I know that.”

“Then you know what he can do, what he _could_ do to you.”

“She said that he doesn’t mind who she sees.”

“Yes, but he might. You do not just take the word of a man like that as fact.” He let out a deep breath and sat back, seeing that although Myka was quiet, she was on edge still. “You worry that she didn’t tell you because it would benefit her somehow?”

“Yes.”

“Could it be that that benefit... is simply you? That she knew no matter when she told you that she was connected to Nathaniel MacPherson, she knew that you would run? She worried that you would, and so she kept quiet?”

“I guess so.”

“There you go.”

“It still hurts, though,” Myka said, in one of the softest voices Pete had ever heard her lips utter.

“I’m not saying it doesn’t.”

A long moment passed before Myka softly admitted, “I thought she really thought I was special.”

“Did she ever tell you that you weren’t?” Pete prompted, appealing in his way to her logic.

“No.”

“Then you are. To her,” and he smiled. She smiled back. “And me,” and she smiled wider. “And Amanda, and Steve, and Leena, and Tracy.”

“I know.”

“About everyone?” he asked, waving his hand about to encapsulate the space between them. She nodded. “Including your lovely Miss Wells?”

“Yes. I just wish she’d tell me. I wish she’d say in those exact words, ‘you are the only person who is special to me,’ because she is. You know, to me.” She smiled with tight lips and a small frown for a moment; it was true that Helena was, but it hurt to somewhat acknowledge that Sam was not as immediately anymore. She tried to shake the feeling off but was neither awake enough nor in the right mood to do anything but wallow, and so she did what she did so well, and over-analysed it.

Pete moved about again cleaning up after their breakfast, and then dashing down to the store for a minute to call Amanda and invite her over, whilst Myka sat. She sat at the chair until its hard base grew annoying, and so she moved to the couch with another cup of coffee. She thought of Sam and how he’d never outright said that she was the only person who was special to him, only that she was simply special. She’d never had any reason to doubt that she wasn’t in fact his only someone special, and so she supposed that that was what made it different.

He’d never dropped a bombshell that he was also seeing a notorious femme fatale or anything of the like. He never even said that he read books with anyone else. She was it. She was special, and the only girl he spent time alone with, thus she was his someone special.

Nathaniel MacPherson was a dangerous man, playing the role and displaying the façade of a successful businessman. He bought businesses and sold them off piece by piece, and for all intents and purposes was simply that. But when the news swum around town that he’d purchased some new run-down company, and the previous owner had mysteriously died, or vanished, or something else that people with eyes open would look at most sceptically, it became apparent that he was not as squeaky-clean as his freshly-pressed suits would have the world believe.

Amanda’s father had arrested MacPherson enough times, as well, to know that he was just not any kind of good news. He operated on the south side of Chicago, and so Myka avoided that end of town as much as she could, even paying the extra dollars to have book deliveries sent up to her lest she have to travel down there to collect them herself. She was far out of his way, and that worked well for her, and yet now, with Helena’s hand holding hers underneath tables, in shadows and dark corners of the bookstore, she was as much in MacPherson’s own backyard as if she had physically travelled down to his neighbourhood and knocked on his door.

She was knocking on the door of a shady businessman with a gun, a gangster and lewd human being, but had the inner audacity to worry about being special.

Suddenly, so immensely sick of the word, she finished her coffee and had a shower when Pete returned upstairs. Ice cold and numbing, it woke her up and cleared her mind. When she stepped back out to the lounge room, Amanda was there with a ring on her finger, arms open to hug her.

~ ~ ~ ~

Sunday lunch turned into Sunday afternoon happy hour and then dinner. Myka fell asleep a little after eight when Pete and Amanda left for home so that she could rest her mind and heart that had bounced between extremes of emotions all day. Monday was what Myka imaged hell to be. She was tired and of all the days that had preceded it, behaving slowly and only filtering in customers in dribs and drabs, the approach of December come the beginning of next week, meaning the approach of Christmas, had customers in at all hours of the day.

She constantly hoped for at least a lull after lunch so that she could put her pounding head down and close her eyes. Whether that dragged her into sleep or not, she needed the rest. The rest would have to wait, children said, now skipping out on school completely to come for books not at all related to the subjects. She did not have the energy come the end of the day to do any small amounts of shopping for dinner, and so instead had called Leena when there was only a few minutes before she needed to help anyone in hopes that the woman would be able to make her up even a sandwich that she may have for dinner.

After she closed the shop, she crossed the street through sleet that clung to her cheek and burned. She did not wipe it off immediately, wanting in the very least to feel anything at all. Leena brushed her cheek with the back of her hand as she handed over a thick sandwich wrapped in brown paper. “You look beaten, Myka,” she’d mumbled, and she could only nod in return, because that was how she felt.

“Come around for dinner Wednesday night?” Myka asked a minute later, when Steve had entered the room.

“Yeah, of course, neighbour. Want us to bring anything?” he asked.

“Just your cards,” she answered, directed to the other woman instead.

She had decided on Wednesday night in her mind rather than the Tuesday, simply so that she could sleep as much as possible before needing to entertain and stay up later that her eyelids would like. For now though, on that bleak and impending worsening of a Monday evening, before the street lamps outside had even flickered on to glow through the foggy street, Myka was tucked up in her warm bed asleep.

She’d eaten her dinner, brushed her teeth, crawled into bed wearing clean and soft pyjamas, and slipped into unconsciousness. Her body felt heavy, one hand weighing a tonne and she had not moved an inch, only tucking her chin lower and closer to her chest as the air around her had cooled. She could not stir, her mind not even limited to the confines of her skull in that sleep, travelling elsewhere to a bed that was warm and was met with equally warm air floating around it. Beside her was not a cold pillow but rather a searing body, dry skin coarsely running against hers as it moved, as that body moved towards her and on top of her.

The body was lighter than hers but still heavy against it as weary muscles pressed and urged, stretched and beckoned. Myka’s sleeping body began to temper, skin growing hotly sensitive to hands that were not there. She felt fingers on her jawline, lips at her neck, teeth at her collarbones, swells of breasts press like puzzle pieces to the dip below her own, legs entwine and tease apart, ankles underneath her soft feet bend and grip against sheets to help thrust.

Sleeping Myka’s lips parted and her tight throat begged for air, for relief, and finally her heavy body began to lift, roll, curve and tense underneath blankets whose weight was nothing in comparison to that body in her dreams. Her hands left the sheltered cave of her folding chest and reached out to grab and direct, pulling at cool sheets instead. Dry and warm hands on her body in return grew wet, sticky as her body slowed, as her muscles relaxed and eased themselves away from cramps.

She breathed in and the cold air over the lip of her covers burned her nose, but still she did not awaken. Her body had pulsed some sort of feeling awake Myka had never really experienced, and sleep Myka was only on the very tip of. Again, almost as if the dream had been carrying on for hours upon hours, her body grew feverish as she felt those hands run over her every inch of skin. She could see through fluttering eyelids dark hair and sparkling eyes shimmering some sort of truth just for her, some sort of honest love that this person perhaps had never shown or allowed herself to show.

As she felt intensity, a body roll with hers in rhythm and passion, hands grasped at shoulders and sheets, tugging and digging short nails in until nailbeds ached, and fingertips burned. Her throat closed as she felt blood flood her brain, her chest, the sweating dip of her back, and then opened to let out a cry, rough and painfully sweet. The sweetest pain she had ever felt.

Myka awoke jarringly in her cold apartment in her warm and sticky bed, with sheets all but ripping under her hold. Her thighs were sticking together, and her eyes were burning with tears. She fell back into her pillows, spreading her arms out along the cold of her bed to refresh her and soothe the burn. Taking a breath, in to see Helena above her, and out to let the tears run down the sides of her face... _Helena_... The sweetest pain she had ever known.

Tuesday was another kind of hell, for each time her eyes closed, she saw Helena’s hair sprawled across her naked body as lips teased her hipbones. She had two glasses of wine that night with dinner. Wednesday was more tolerable, but lonely and for all the noise that filled her store and the street outside, her brain was still able to drown it out with its own screaming. She was glad for Steve and Leena’s friendship that night, to distract her from the new kinds of hell she was learning of – Dante had nothing on love.

Thursday returned to that over-tired kind of hell again, but not as severely. She decided that the next Saturday would be a rare one of no cleaning. Sunday could have that for a change, and she would sleep and laze until then. She would still get up to find flowers at the markets, or maybe she wold find a Sunday market instead. Hugo would be at either.

Friday was slow again, as Fridays were determined to be. Myka was down the back, berating the fire for its lack of warmth that day, but understanding that it might not be feeling like functioning much that week. “Heaven knows,” she began as she threw another match onto dry and crumpled newspapers. “I haven’t felt much like functioning this week either,” and she didn’t exactly know why, but she told the fire about Helena for a moment, reminding it of the kind woman who sat with her on the couch while the fire had fallen asleep one afternoon. “I’d like very much for her to sit with me again, you see, but she is not the same person in my mind as she was when she had simply sat and stared at me. She has secrets behind those eyes.”

The door swung open at the front, and so with a soft smile of encouragement, Myka pushed herself up and left the fire. It was a young woman at the door, shaking off snow-flakes from the shoulders of her coat and then shaking it off her completely. “Good afternoon,” Myka said with a cheery voice that was not her own. She did not know who that person was. The woman in front of her, however, looked a little familiar from certain angles.

“Myka,” the voice said, and a smile tugged at her own lips. That voice... “Or should I say, Miss Bering,” and it definitely was someone she knew. Eyes latched onto her, and then a cheeky cocked-grin appeared.

“Claudia!” She stepped forward and wrapped the younger woman in her arms, having not seen her in over two years. After a long embrace, they held each other back at arm’s length to look over each other, to remember.

It was Claudia’s first year at university, a year younger than most of her peers because she had been so adamant as a child to start school earlier. She was younger than everyone else, and yet was somehow too old for them as well. Academically, she excelled, but socially, she was what the other students simply called a misfit. She didn’t fit in, but she didn’t mind. Until she attended an open lecture where senior students were presenting their theories on translation and language. Myka had spoken exceptionally well, impressing and holding the attention of even sports star Pete Lattimer in the front row.

Claudia had sat up the back, but come the end of the lecture, had made her way down to the front at lightning speed to gush intellectually over Myka and how in awe she was. It was true, she didn’t need any help to pass her classes, but it suddenly became apparent to her that she did not simply want to pass and obtain a good grade. She wanted the best grade like this Myka Bering seemed to acquire every single time. Myka began tutoring little Claudia and helping to word her assessments so that she was not only presenting facts but making the facts as fascinating and impactful as possible.

But then Myka had graduated and left campus, and although she had told Claudia where she was now, they had lost touch. Myka had been busy, and so had Claudia. Yet now, they were older and wiser and standing in each other’s arms, found again.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Claudia said in that always casual and jesting tone.

“It is my store,” Myka noted.

“It is your store. You have a store!”

“That you haven’t visited,” Myka noted again.

“Hey, I have my reasons,”

“Yes, I can see them,” Myka said, nodding around the shorter woman to the large black case sitting behind her. “A guitar?”

“The love of my life.”

“Do tell, for I did think that technology studies were the love of your life.”

“Not when it doesn’t love you back. Ahead of my time, isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you used to say to me?” Claudia asked, turning to reposition her case for opening.

“It was. You are going to graduate though, aren’t you?”

“Gee, I didn’t realise my mother was here,” the younger woman said sarcastically, before flicking open the latches of her case. She sat the lid back gently, running her fingertips along the edge lovingly before reaching in to lift out the guitar, streamline and although smaller than any acoustic guitar Myka had ever seen, still weighty looking. “You see, _Mom_ , this here baby costs about as much as the rest of my college tuition would have so... uh...”

“You dropped out,” Myka said, without any sort of judgement in her voice. She knew that although Claudia was perhaps one of the smartest people she had ever met, the era that they lived in were not kind to minds like hers if they lived in the bodies of women.

“Music is better for me now. And this gorgeous Ken Roberts loves me, and allows others to appreciate my skills where lecturers and professors would not. Not _could not_ , but _would not_.”

“Oh, I know, Claud. The amount of times I order crime novels, or historical works to stock the store with and the men are confused as to why a woman would want them is infuriating.”

“The time we live in is not on our side.”

“Time can take itself to the south side and rot in a gutter,” Myka said distastefully. She shook her head afterwards; such coarse things were not in her nature. Or at least they weren’t in her nature to let outside of her head.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“What; water?”

“Well, actually... I am supposed to be playing at a club tonight. Sort of my first professional gig-“

“Oh, Claudia! That’s terrific,” and back they were to hugging, Claudia holding out her guitar so that Myka didn’t crush it. “Where?”

“A place called The Warehouse. I’ve played at little dive bars only, really, and this is sort of a big deal.” She kept talking nervously, looking mainly at her guitar as if it were to comfort her, not entirely aware of how Myka’s expression had changed at the name of the club. “Anyway, I had been meaning to come in and say hello, to check out the store, but I guess I might also need a familiar face in such a much larger audience. I thought I might buy you your first drink if you came and watched me?”

“Oh, Claudia... That’s, um...”

“You have plans,” Claudia said, as if that was the reason for Myka’s hesitance to agree to the evening.

“No, I, um... I’d love to,” and her answer surprised the both of them. She had been so begrudging whenever it came to Helena this past week, yet with Pete’s odd amounts of logic still echoing in her head, she supposed that it wouldn’t hurt. Maybe she would see Helena. Maybe they would talk and Helena would explain. Maybe she’d step in the door and regret it instantly but was unable to run. Maybe this was a mistake.

_Maybe this is a mistake_ , her heart beat in her ears said, as Claudia made her way through the dimly lit club floor to reach the stage. Myka had said she would sit at the corner table, near the large and bulky wireless radio, but her legs seemed unable to carry her there, and so she watched Claudia vanish into the crowd and shadows, too confident to ever really need Myka there at all.

And yet, she was there. She had said she would be, and that she wouldn’t leave. So, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She took herself to the bar and ordered a glass of white wine, then changed her mind to whiskey at the last second, not at all sure as to why except that wine wasn’t going to help her survive the night at all well.

She sat by the wireless and enjoyed its static hum, accompanied by the off twangs and plucking of chords as Claudia set up. There was a man on the stage, waving the microphone cord around as he kept the audience pumping in the meantime. Myka simply watched the young woman on stage, offering a calming smile for whenever she looked up. Claudia was nervous, her fingers fumbling a little and her brow furrowing aggressively to reprimand herself.

“Psst,” Myka shot, loud enough to carry across the mostly bare stage to her, but still quiet enough to be background noise to the effervescent man at the mic. Claudia looked up and there were those nerves in her eyes. “You’ll be amazing!”

And she was. As soon as she had settled onto her stool, tilting the microphone towards her chin and nodded to the drummist behind her, she was as cool as the iced liqueurs sliding through the audience’s veins. Her voice mellowed to a deep tone more than even her sarcasm allowed, and her fingers tempted the strings of her guitar for it to echo the heartache of her words. She was singing covers, but in such a way that Myka felt as if she had never heard those songs before in her life.

The drums behind her quickened in a rhythm that announced the end of the song, and she sat back, eyes closed around the love of her last words. They stayed closed, and then there was the applause, and they opened. She beamed and looked over to Myka who was clapping the hardest of them all. The rest of her set sat as nicely with the gently drunk crowd, and so when she was due for a break, Myka bought her a drink.

“I was buying your first,” Claudia protested, taking the tall glass of Coca-Cola just the same.

“I wasn’t the one just wowing the crowd!” and it was a fair point, and so Claudia took a large drink. Soon, she was back onto the stage with some other artists this time, to simply play in the small orchestra all squished up to fit on it. She was having fun, plucking a few notes that weren’t on the music sheets in front of her but matched the mood of the room and excited the singer to try and match it.

Myka stayed at the bar instead, having another whiskey, and then a water. She felt a hum within her body but did not want it to get carried away. She was down the far end, closest to the door and chilled air that rushed in to cool her in her alcoholic flush. From her stool, she could see the stage, the tables and chairs surrounding the small dance floor and filling the space, the length of the bar beside her that led to the stairs, and then the mezzanine.

The mezzanine.

Oh, what a fool she was to let her eyes roam up there even though she had so brutally been telling herself not to all evening. It was now after ten and although the water she sipped on was helping her, she was tired and weak. She was perhaps still tired from long ago last Saturday night. Her eyes landed on pale skin and night-black hair out and flowing, brought over a bare shoulder to fall down alongside the gold chain that glimmered in the lighting from the wall, or the dusty and antiquely-designed chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling.

Myka looked away, trying to somehow hide herself behind the people who lined up at the counter to order drinks, and she thought that she had succeeded, until there was a tap at her shoulder. She braced herself, expecting Helena, but it was a short girl, with her own dark hair tied up and tucked under her sports cap. She was in a tweed suit – one with pants – and Myka couldn’t help but smile at her. She was sweet, quiet, of Chinese decent she could see, and so Myka could not help but feel relief that this girl had found safety in a club like this. The girl handed her a letter and with one last smile that sparkled in her eyes, she left. She reminded Myka of her old friend Abigail.

Myka held the letter in her hand for a moment, before bringing it up to rest at her upper lip, taking a breath in. Fudge, and as she ran the end of the envelope along her lip, apples too. She sighed, and brought it down to her lap as the customers beside her filtered back to the rest of the club. The bar was bare, and she was at it alone. Well, almost alone. Mrs Frederic stood on the other side of it at the other end talking to a woman, but all that Myka could see of this woman was dark hair splayed across pale skin, and she crumbled. She whimpered to herself and found her legs pushing her off the stool and walking towards her.

Mrs Frederic nodded to her and stepped away, and then that dark hair was swishing around, and there was Helena.

“What is this?” Myka asked, holding up the letter.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk to me, so that is my explanation. Or at least...”

“What you can offer.”

“Yes,” Helena said. “How have you been?” she asked after a moment, her teeth sucking in and biting at already blood-red lips.

“Discovering what hell is like.”

“Oh, Myka.”

“Don’t. Please.” Myka dipped her chin and closed her eyes. “I’ll read it.”

“Thank you.” A silence fell over them and Myka could hear Claudia’s guitar hold the room captive.

“I’m here with a friend.”

“I’m glad that you’re here at all, whatever the reason. I’ve missed you.”

“It’s been a week, Helena,” Myka tried to reason with the woman, just as she had all week with herself.

“And I miss you.”

Before Myka could say anything else, say that she missed Helena in return, the Englishwoman had left, and she was alone at the bar again.

~ ~ ~ ~

The clock beside Myka’s bed chimed its little note to say that the new day had begun; midnight and she was sitting on her chair at the kitchen table in lamplight. She ran her hand nervously, hurriedly though her messy curls, trying to fall at least somewhat elegantly around her shoulders. She’d read the letter. She’d smiled at Helena’s words and how they seemed to carry her voice and vernacular. She frowned at how well Helena seemed to know her, even though while it had been longer than a week, Myka had told herself that they hadn’t known each other for very long at all. _Long enough to know you_ , Helena’s words had said.

She took a deep breath and pushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear as she stood. Ankle boots on, scarf around her neck lazily, and envelope as tightly yet softly in her grasp as she could, she headed down to the store.

Across town, Helena sat by her telephone running her own hands through her hair nervously, until the phone rang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, when Myka heals, she grows stronger, and strength allows her to fight. Fight for Helena. Thoughts?


	13. THIRTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, our Myka, who was so very terrified of that awful telephone ringing when she was a far happier creature living in the magnificent serenity of books; our Myka who was slowly falling, and wanting the phone to ring; our Myka knew that she would never again be happy to hear her phone ring if she didn't first do the ringing...

“You answered quickly,” Myka stated, and was partly annoyed at her own coyness. She didn’t want to give in to Helena, to her feelings and let her voice relay how she wanted the other woman so badly. But she also wanted to... to let her know, to want her and have Helena want her in return. It was why she was calling after all.

“My hand was already on the receiver,” and Myka blushed through the phoneline at Helena’s honesty – her blunt honesty. “You read my letter?”

“I did. And you’re right. I don’t understand everything yet, but I want to. I want to understand everything when you explain it to me.”

Helena bit her lip and closed her eyes, feeling burning warmth behind them as her heart sunk comfortably into her ribs. She melted. “You have no idea what it does to me to hear you say that.”

“Care to hear me say other things?” Myka said on a whim, that coyness back again as she blushed, at her _own_ bluntness this time.

“Why, Miss Bering,” and Helena paused for a moment before slipping too easily into their usual, free banter. Myka didn’t object, and so she went on. “What sort of things would you say to me?”

“Come over and find out?”

“Is this you talking, or is it the whiskey Mrs Frederic stopped you from drinking too much of?”

“She also made sure to almost drown me in water soon after I’d _tried_ to get a little drunk.”

“She’s a good woman.”

“She is,” Myka agreed. She took a slow deep breath, attempting to quell the thrum of her heart reverberating in her collarbones, and said, “and to answer your question, it is me asking. It is me wanting you, regardless of alcohol or pain.”

“I’m sorry, Myka,” and that thrumming increased, panicked.

“Sorry?” She hoped so much that this wasn’t the start of Helena turning her down. The start of Helena fastening herself so tightly to her cross that she would not come down to heal with Myka.

“I am sorry that I have hurt you. That I keep hurting you.”

Myka sighed. She could have said that it was okay. She could have said that she was sorry as well. She could have said many a thing that her brain might manage if she were more awake, but she was not. She was tired and weak, and while not drunk enough – or practically at all – she could still feel in her body, in the flesh that grew warm, she could remember how Helena had stood on the mezzanine with her hair over her shoulder. She was the air of confidence and sophistication, and while Helena had been hiding sadness in the darkness of her eyes, watching Myka from afar, the bookkeeper had seen simply darkness. A haunting darkness that she could only imagine stalking up her body from where she was tucked beneath sheets and between Myka’s thighs.

Myka could have said anything in response to Helena’s melancholy apology, but she had that image of dark hair splayed across _her_ pale skin stuck in her mind. With a low hum of whiskey still remembered in her throat, she wanted that apology; she wanted to be _shown_ that apology. “Come over and apologise to me.”

There was a shift in the other woman’s voice, Helena could hear; it was deeper, more demanding, her craving was practically simmering the phone line and sending sparks into her ear. She understood what Myka meant. She understood what Myka wanted. She wanted it – _her_ – too. “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes. Less, if Artie feels like pushing the speed limit.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Twelve minutes later – for she had, of course, been watching the clock – Myka swung open her front door to the sight of a warmly rugged-up yet slightly shivering Helena. She welcomed her in, beckoned her in and grabbed the edge of her coat to hasten her out of the wind and deftly falling snow. The shoulders of the black coat were freckled with flakes, and Myka helped to dust them off before the entire coat came off as well. Peeling woollen sleeves from naked skin, Helena was still dressed in the gown from earlier in the night.

A soft bone colour the dress was in this light, with cream and pristine white detailing, its coolness and sheer fabric diminished her somehow; made her smaller. On the mezzanine, she had seemed larger than any entity in the room. Commanding, striking, and yet now, with cold skin and soft pink lips, bare of any bright red that had coated them before she had seen Myka, left the club entirely and cried as she stared at herself in the mirror; now she was broken down and small.

She’d wiped her make-up from her face, lipstick smudging down her chin as her cheeks blended in the colour with flushed nerves. Helena had waited by her phone, her coat by her side and her hair less flowing, and more hanging about her instead. Now, as she stood before Myka, cold and burning, she worried herself pathetic, and so she pulled her coat back up her arms with a struggle.

Myka helped her in the last moments, having closed the door and turned to the Englishwoman behind her. The apartment was practically icy, but she had done all that she could to warm it up without having to start a fire downstairs. She’d made a late-night meal, having not really had any dinner at the appropriate time, and the heat from the stove had begun to warm her home. She’d covered the vents where usual hot fire air would have travelled up, but now only a windy draft did instead. Myka had been carrying a hot water bottle around with her as well, up until the moment that she had left for the store, and then since as she had waited pacing.

She had been so bold, she smiled cautiously to Helena as she gestured for her to head upstairs. She had been so bold in telling Helena to want her as she was wanting in return, and yet she knew not what to do once the woman of her affections and desire was to arrive. A small saving grace was the finality she felt when hearing the silver Rolls Royce pull away and vanish down the street a moment later, her feet finding the steps beneath her more firmly.

At the top of the stairs, she opened her mouth to speak, but remembered the last time that they were there, and how Helena hadn’t. She pushed through. Helena stood in front of her with her coat weighing heavily on her weary shoulders, but now falling open at the front calmly; it was warmer upstairs than just inside the door. Helena was gorgeous to her, and all she could see was dark hair cascading over a dark coat and then white heels at the bottom. She was every ounce of mystery that Myka had always imagined and seen her to be, so maybe not that much had changed.

“Coffee?” she asked, passing the other woman on the way to the kitchen. She needed coffee just the same, but found Helena nodding profusely when she turned to look. “I’m going to need to be more awake for when you...” _explain... try to help me understand..._ “...apologise.” Myka shifted her gaze up from her slowly filling kettle to throw a coy smile at the woman, a cocky grin reminiscent of Claudia’s.

“So am I,” Helena returned, and they quickly settled into that soft banter again, although perhaps a little more teasing with intention this time than others.

With wind picking up outside, but the snow settling thinly on the windowsill, the night appeared to be clearing for a rare sunny morning. Helena perched in her coat against the windowsill of Myka’s bedroom beside the small vase of wilting flowers, a nearly empty mug of coffee resting in her hands. She was warmer now, the coffee only partially responsible. Over the lips of mugs and through the thinness of stockings, glances and soft touching had quickly warmed both women up from the inside out.

“I can see the stars,” Helena said, her breath clouding up the window. She relinquished her hold on her mug with one hand to press her warm fingertip to the chilled glass, then drew a heart. She smiled, remembering.

“Does MacPherson know I exist?”

Helena’s eyes dropped from the window and she slowly turned to look at Myka, sitting on the edge of the couch across the room. It felt cold once more, all of a sudden. She pushed herself off the windowsill and took a few steps until her knees bumped against the soft of Myka’s mattress. She let her knees collapse underneath her gently and came to sit on the very corner of the bed, so much so that if she leaned back a little too far, she would most certainly fall off. To sit on the bed felt daring, but to cross and sit on the couch with Myka seemed intimidating all the more, and so she took her chances with a simple dare.

“No, he doesn’t,” she finally answered, and Myka nodded her understanding of the word. “He knows only that I have hours of my life that he is not privy to, that I do not tell him about. We are not in any sort of relationship,” and she winced at her own choice of word, as did Myka. “ _Arrangement_ , so as that we ask each other how our days were. I arrive where I am needed, do my job, leave my baggage at the door and only collect it again when I am leaving.”

“So... am I safe?”

“As much as I can manage. I have not taken you anywhere that he knows I frequent-“

“Even The Warehouse?”

“Even there. Remember, that a place like that is not talked of outside of it.”

“We’re talking of it now,” Myka pointed out, a little cheekily.

“We are indeed, but we have both been there, you see. In any case, he has no reason to have known of your existence, or your presence in my life.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Relieved?”

“Yes.”

“There have been instances,” Helena continued, and Myka could feel in her stomach that it was not a positive continuation. “Where Nathaniel has remarked on the suit my companion wore the night before.”

“He spies on you?”

“Rather, he has loyal minions who would gladly trade in little titbits of information in exchange for money,” Helena clarified, not that it made either of them feel any better about the situation.

“Is...” Myka began, but paused, worried to be pressing at an issue that she’d rather not know about. But, she told herself, she wanted to know about Helena, including all of the unpleasant and bad things, and so this... _arrangement_ was a part of that. “Is Artie one of his spies?”

“Heavens, no!” and Helena’s assertion of the fact was very much an assurance for her. “Artie simply works for him, but, as I am sure you have noticed, he also works for me. He is more of _my_ spy, than MacPherson’s.” Myka appreciated the returning to the man’s surname as well, if only for slight pettiness and greed.

“Good.” Myka nodded, putting a proverbial seal on the conversation, for the moment at least, before letting out a sigh, deep and heavy. It was still too heavy for one breath alone to ease her of. She smiled poorly, the curve of her lips barely making a dimple in her cheek, as Helena rose to shuffle across the foot of the bed, making her way inch by inch towards Myka.

“I’m sorry, Myka. For hurting you, for lying, for trying to keep you safe and only confusing you in the process...”

“Stop,” Myka said, and although Helena had edged closer towards her physically, she could see her slipping away in her mind, climbing higher up that cross. “Come here.” She shuffled backwards on the couch so that there was immediate room for Helena to slouch in, and when she had, the other woman making sure not to even bump knees, Myka reached over and placed her mug down on the small table sitting in front of it.

Helena was pathetic, she knew it, and she did not want Myka to pity her, but it was hard to ask that of someone else when she couldn’t even manage it herself. Which is why, in her low and far wallowing, she was surprised at the gesture presented to her, acted upon before she could even realise that it was happening. Myka leant over and grabbed her ankles softly, sliding sure hands along the smooth of her stockings to hook behind knees and extend those legs across her own lap.

“Stop apologising, and come down to me, please,” and while Helena did not know where exactly she was to come down from, she did in a heartbeat, putting her own mug down and wriggling across the couch so that she was looped and draped, coddled into Myka around her. Those sure hands pushed her hanging hair from beside her face, back over her shoulder so that her neck was exposed. Myka pushed away at the coat collar as well, enjoying how Helena’s shoulders dropped and shifted from side to side, so that it began to fall off her completely. Now, without the coat, her hair, even a dipped chin for the Englishwoman was tilting her head up just enough to offer as much of an exposed neck as she could, Myka could see the gold chain.

She ran her fingertips along it, and when it reached the drop of Helena’s dress, holding whatever hung at the crux of it warmly between breasts, she looked up into dark, clearing eyes for permission. Helena nodded, and so Myka’s fingers fished out a locket, tentative fingertips running along the soft skin of her pale chest, her slowly-growing-flushed chest.

In Myka’s palm sat a locket. It was rectangular and a little battered, but loved; oh yes, loved. She ran her thumb over it softly, feeling Helena’s warmth upon it, before bringing it up to her lips and kissing it softly. “You don’t even know what it holds,” Helena whispered.

“Love,” Myka said. Helena didn’t nod, or offer any kind of affirmation, only reached up with her own tentative fingertips and opened it in Myka’s palm. In it sat the image of a little girl.

“My Christina.” She did not want pity from Myka, but she accepted it in the look she gave her, apologetic and soft in all the kindest ways. “She died a long time ago,” and just as quickly as she had decided to open the locket, she closed it again and dropped it back down her dress’ front. Myka slipped her hands into Helena’s, running soothing thumbs over her reddened knuckles, still cold. “Would you mind terribly, Myka,” she began, pausing a little to settle her breath and hold back determined tears, before looking up into green eyes.

“Yes?”

“Kiss me?”

“I would’ve asked if you hadn’t,” Myka whispered in return, and leant in, a soft smile still on her lips, one that did reach her cheeks.

~ ~ ~ ~

Flowers had always been present. They always had, and always would be for Myka, for various reasons. Her mother had always tried to keep flowers in the house, overlapping bouquets from week to week, whilst always placing a sweet few flower buds in Myka’s room when she was down, simply to give her some inspiration, some hope that she too, would bloom. Her grandparents’ home featured flowers as well, and sometimes simply empty vases that promised to become home again. Sam had bought her flowers, Tracy often did as well; flowers were loving and supportive, and so when she finally moved to a home of her own, even her small dormitory room at college, she had flowers.

She was sometimes lonely and overwhelmed, needing some support and loving of her own that just didn’t seem to make it as thoroughly through the words of a letter, or even the rare phone call. So, she would buy them herself. She went to her first antique market in Chicago on a warm spring day where the trees were finally regaining some new leaves, and the air began to taste fresher. There were couches and bookshelves, and she took note of those great finds for the day she would need them in her home as well, but for that first visit, she was after a vase.

Any common store may have supplied a vase for her, at half the price, but flowers were not simply something to hold or look at. To Myka, they were about family, love and hope, her history and future, so where better to find a historical and previously loved vase for those flowers than an antique market. A ceramic one was decided on, sturdy and tall, with fine, almost pin-prick small detailing depicting something that could have easily been interpreted as Greek. Myka knew her Greek however, and so knew that this was a very amateur westernised attempt at the ancient design, but it was gorgeous and so very _her_ just the same.

She loved the vase. Never was there a bouquet that she wasn’t excited to see sit in it, with colours contrasting and its lean structure only making the scene more elegant. She’d stand over her flowers, breathing in their fragrance as she caressed the vase, enjoying the bumps and dips on its surface from paints or old dents of damage as the petals tickled her lips. She kept her distance from lilies, but still kissed the petals when she could, smiling into the pinks and yellows, stained whites as the week dragged on.

Roses became her lips’ favourite, the silky soft reminding her of soft kisses to Sam’s cheek she’d once given. She longed to kiss soft skin again one day – not that she’d let the roses know that. They were perfection enough.

Her three years at college, and the almost three years of the vase and its textured body known to Myka’s fingertips, she was excited to finally move into her own place, and have that vase sit on her kitchen table, or the chest of drawers behind the couch, or the windowsill of her room. Sadly, asking best friend Pete to be especially careful when carrying the box that the vase sat in as he helped her move only made him more nervous, and less careful. He tripped over seemingly nothing, and the box came bouncing down. He caught it up as best he could before it completely crashed, but it was too late.

Myka was as devastated as she could be over a vase, missing the curves of it before she had even opened the box to inspect the damage. It was beyond repair, and the first two days of living in her apartment meant that it and she were flowerless. That was until, of course, having seen her emotion and sorrow over... a vase... Pete went to such a common store and bought a rather simple, yet well-intended vase for her as apology. It was a washed-out soft green, reminiscent of Parisian designs she had seen in magazines, and loved it instantly. It could have been covered in black and white checks, or awful yellow lemon splatters, and she would love it still.

Family, love, hope, history. It was from Pete, and so it was perfect. She’d quickly acquired the lease of the store below her apartment and decided to put her gift from her best friend on display to everyone who passed by. The windowsill of the store’s front window housed the vase, that slowly began to fade a little on each side when rotated every month or so. Whatever few leftover flowers did not fit in her vase upstairs, a congratulations-on-graduating-and-owning-a-bookstore-I-suppose gift from sister Tracy, came down to settle in the store one as well.

She’d stand in front of those flowers, chrysanthemums, roses, daisies, and kiss their petals while she held her book behind her back. Upstairs, she’d be a little more daring than she ever had been at college, and would stand in her dressing gown after showers, or boldly on warmer evenings, nothing at all, to kiss the petals and be kissed by them in return. She knew it was odd, to be so soft with nature when that was supposedly something left to children or English writers at the turn of the twentieth century. Her lips may have once been kissed by lips, but her body had only ever known the softness of flowers and her own wandering hands.

So it was that on a late autumn’s early morning, with something softer than rose petals pressing to her lips, her neck, the sharp straining cut of her jaw, she still felt the softness of flowers upon her. The body beneath her fingertips was no doubt more fascinating and warm than any vase she had or would ever own, but she remembered it just the same. Yet with every new nip at her skin, every new heat that she felt – for a vase did not carry any searing warmth to her skin, practically marking her, or at least how she _wished_ Helena’s hands would mark her – she slowly began to forget the vase, rewrite the facts in her mind as to what was soft to her lips, and a perfect fragrance to her nose.

It was all Helena. Everything spelled Helena. The burn in her chest and weight of her head told her that she was spelling too much of Helena, however, and she had to tuck her chin down, back away from equally eager-to-spell lips so that she may breathe. She took in air through her nose, and then opened her mouth to yawn, feeling betrayed by it the instance that the glow in Helena’s eyes softened.

“You’re sleepy,” the English voice whispered to Myka’s ears, for her eyes had closed again and she could not see those words being said.

“But kissing.”

“We can do that tomorrow.” Myka yawned again and frowned to spite herself. “Come, come, my love. Off to bed,” and before she could protest any longer – with yawns, she chastised herself – Helena was slipping out of her hold and standing from the couch. Hot hands slid down her arms and grabbed at her own to help her up. Myka obeyed, another yawn striking through her. She stomped her foot, sleepily, and did as she was told, taking herself to the bathroom with pyjamas to change. After a long while, pausing in her sleepiness and then remembering moments later to keep moving and not fall asleep sitting on the edge of her bath, she emerged.

Helena was sitting kindly on the side of the bed, her coat back on and wrapped snugly around her. “Do you have any spare blankets so that I may sleep on the sofa?”

“What?” Myka shook her head, shaking off her flannel button up of pink and orange stripes from her shoulders. It was warm, she recalled once looking upon Helena with her now tousled hair, and pinkened cheeks, lips, neck. “No, Helena, you are sleeping with me.”

“Am I?”

“Unless...” Myka paused, quite literally in her tracks. “You don’t want to?”

“Oh, no, I will. You’re comfier than any sofa.”

“You mean _my bed_ is comfier,” Myka poked.

A pause, a slow blink and a quirked smile appeared. “Sure.”

Myka blushed more than she already thought was possible, and felt it run down to her chest. Her slightly more bared chest, she noticed when looking down upon it. She was in a simple cream camisole top, worn under her flannel button up on most nights for when there was no other person near her to keep her warm. Now, of course, there was, and she was practically burning up. She busied herself – distracted herself – with opening her chest of drawers to secure a set of pyjamas that Helena may wear. The other woman took the feathery flannel set offered to her, plain blue with silk white piping on the cuffs and collar. Myka hadn’t worn them many times, only having bought them a few months ago in preparation for the impending winter.

They were now Helena’s pyjamas, for whenever, if ever, she was to visit for the night again.

 _Slow down_ , Myka told herself, turning off lights around the apartment, leaving only the one beside her bed on. She did not want to get ahead of herself. She wanted to hope, naturally, but did not want to get at all hurt again, only worsened would it be if she had only helped the fire along. She slowed down, taking breaths, slowly pulling back the covers of her bed, slowly placing the spare pillows on the floor beside her, and slowly sliding in between warm sheets.

“You have hot water bottles?” Helena said as she crossed from darkness to the orange glow from the lamp.

“I have at least five.”

“Smart girl,” Helena said with a wink. She rounded the foot of the bed and pulled back the covers of the other side, revealing a distinct lack of hot water bottles. “But only on your side.”

“I didn’t know that you’d come over. I didn’t even know if I’d call.”

“I’m glad you did,” Helena said, before bracing herself to slide in between cool sheets.

“So am I.” Myka reached out as she spoke and gripped Helena’s shirt, then let go to wrap around her waist and urge her closer. “Stay on my side.”

“How squishy,” that elegant English accent cooed, snuggling down into pillows, warmth, and Myka. She boldly slid her arm out along the underside of Myka’s pillow before the other woman relaxed completely, simply so that she could wrap herself around her. Myka sunk into it after switching off the lamp, and so Helena smiled in the safety of the night. She smiled and inched the blankets up a little further to cover her bookkeeper’s bare shoulders. She ran her fingers through wild curls and cupped a tender cheek. She felt another body press into hers, other hands squeeze and hold at her hips, her arms, the bend of her elbow. She heard a deep breath of her scent taken in and a resounding and content hum reverberate against her collarbones.

She smiled. She continued to smile in her cheeks and the delicateness of her closed eyes as she pressed a kiss to Myka’s forehead.

~ ~ ~ ~

Chicago was a city of few and many things. The few it was known for and thrived upon far outshined those of the many that were content, and more often than not forced, to live in the shadows. Sports, culture, visionary architecture were the pointers Myka gave her family when she half-heartedly decided to move there. She listened to all the reasons why she shouldn’t and was bemused by herself, as equally as her family was, that she’d listed the sporting scene as a reason to live in the windy city. “There are more bookstores there,” she’d directed at her father, “where I can find more books than you have ever sold in your store. I can find books _that_ you can sell in your bookstore.” He was fazed neither here nor there, and that was all the argument she could come up with for him, so she supposed she’d lost.

Just as always. Or maybe they’d tied, but she still had to stand on the second-place podium.

Tracy was all for her to move. “Go! Get out of tiny little Colorado Springs!” and while Myka’s mother had deemed Denver a large city, Myka had seen in her mind that she’d outgrown it. She needed bigger hopes, bigger buildings to crane her neck up towards, bigger everything so that she could fade in comparison and not stand out as much as she did on her own street when the neighbours would come by and offer their condolences on her Sam.

She really didn’t mind where she went, as long as Sam didn’t know it, and it didn’t know Sam.

Helena felt much the same, but in regards to New York rather than Chicago. Chicago was a rather necessary move for plans to evolve and begin to roll along. London was small to her. London was large and vast with those towering buildings and crowds to get lost in, but New York was a part of the _brave new world_ where she could simply try to be someone that she’d much rather be.

New York had other ideals on what would come of Helena G. Wells, however. And thus, her once spritely, now weary body had moved to Chicago.

Chicago. With few great things, and many greater things.

Neither had been told, but both knew of the little “back alley” happenings of the city that had been happening for a while. These, both would also come to know, were the things that really made Chicago thrive. The sports, the culture, the visionary architecture. Fight clubs and gambling, organizations started and fought for by Henry Gerber – who had once lived a few blocks from Myka, and the doors so similarly styled like those that lead to cellars that hid the former and the latter, as well as clubs, distilleries, brothels, and anything that every other city had. Every other city had them, but in Chicago, with new eyes and less care to give, those _things_ were what Myka and Helena slowly saw become what the city really thrived on.

They saw Chicago for what it was and Chicago saw them, and in a small apartment above a store in Lincoln Park beneath a clear sunrise, it kept them safe as they held each other close, sleeping, in love, thriving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, there is angst, but not took much just yet, because plainly I didn't want it all so much right now! So what did we think?


	14. FOURTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The morning after and it's time for some history. History is everything, and for Helena, it had sort of become the single line running though her that made her who she was. For the most recent years of her history, her deepest heartache of history had ruled her, had instructed her every move, and so it was not until Myka broke through to her, that she dared to relive it. Myka had come along and through darkness and dust to be hidden in, she found Helena's book of history and had begun to read with sincerity and kindness; with love.

Helena was no stranger to waking up in a bed with someone, especially if she was the stranger in theirs. She’d had various affairs across her life for various reasons, on various whims and with various outcomes. Sometimes she’d awaken with arms wrapped snuggly around her, protective from the unconscious beyond, yet crushing as she wished to soon escape them. They’d breathe in at her neck and hold her close when she’d shift, and so she’d have to wait. At times, those arms would caress her when the person awoke, mumbling a sleepy good morning and smiling up at her, which she’d have to attempt to match. Other times they’d push her away once their eyes fluttered opened, angry for some reason as to why she was still there – even though they’d invited her into that bed – and why she hadn’t left before they’d awoken – even though they were holding her body between bony limbs like a vice.

On other occasions, she would awaken and the other body occupying the bed was on the far side of it, _far_ from her. No limbs tangled, no arms claiming her, nothing to stop her. She’d leave with no regret and no shame, taking herself home without a goodbye in the early morning light to her own bed, unslept in. When she was in London, she’d have to endure a small berating from her mother before she could meet that bed, and so when she’d eventually made it to New York, she was glad to not have any hostile welcome waiting for her.

And then there was Chicago, and she had had no affairs. Only one arrangement. One of Nathaniel MacPherson’s few redeeming qualities – if he was really worthy of redemption at all – was that he was of the bed-sharers that kept to his own side of it. Falling asleep as well was a distanced effort, and that bode well for Helena. She could close her eyes and imagine herself elsewhere, and then take herself there when she awoke in the morning.

She would try to imagine what sort of reaction he would have if they ever woke up in each other’s arms. Would he hold her closer, or push her away? She wished that she had the power to choose. That she could decide to push people away and promptly take herself home. Instead, she had to be the lady she had been the night before and wait. Wait for the other person, wait for their reaction and their commands, wait for the shame to settle in the back of her throat when Nathaniel was the first person she’d see in daylight. She never regretted an affair, but always did with him.

She’d been disgusted the first time she’d been with him – with _him_ – but then had gone back a second time. Then a third. Now, it was months later, and she was still as disgusted in herself for her own choices each time she awoke in his bed. She was disgusting.

Sunshine filtering in through Myka’s curtain, the morning was late and clear. It was warm across the foot of the bed, waking Helena slowly. She pushed the covers down her body with one hand and brought it back up to her chest, dragging her sleep shirt up a little with it, to bare her skin. She stretched her fingertips, and suddenly found that she couldn’t feel her other hand. She flexed it as she had with her right, her brain told her that it was moving, and yet she still could not feel it, nor her entire arm. She turned her head from the window and opened her eyes, seeing the reason as to why when she’d awoken, her arm was still asleep. Myka.

The woman had rolled around in the night to her stomach, arms tucked up to her chest in her attempts to stay warm and her nose pressing into the soft of Helena’s upper arm. Helena curled her arm, knowing now that she could, and let her fingertips dangle down to play with rogue curls. She picked up ones that she could away from the still sleeping woman’s face, before gently rolling herself to her side, arm moving out from underneath her a little, and using her right hand – the one she could feel with – to move those curls and caress that face.

Myka roused a touch at the touch, and further nuzzled her nose into pillows and Helena’s elbow in some sort of protest. Before Helena thought to manage a good morning for the other woman, she was struck with adoration. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered, fingertips still playing against flushed skin.

Myka was beautiful. And Helena was disgusting.

She continued looking at Myka, regarding her and wishing that she had the energy to leave. Any energy to run like she always did the morning after, but found that she couldn’t, that deep down, she really didn’t want to either. _Leave,_ her mind told her. _Leave now. Leave her be,_ but of course, she would not listen to herself. She told herself to leave and let Myka stay safe, and unbothered by the sins of her own past; it wasn’t right to muddy Myka’s reputation, her life and dreams and how she walked down the street with what had been done to her and what she’d done in return.

So deep in thought, her eyes were on Myka, but barely registered that the other woman was waking until she felt her move against her. “Mmm,” Myka mumbled. Apart from the impending dread and unwarranted shame she felt thickening the back of her throat, Helena imagined that waking up like this, with Myka in her arms, would have been quite the idyllic way to live the rest of her life. But, of course, the dread, the guilt, the shame.

“Good morning,” she said, because she at least owed Myka that.

“Morning,” a deeper voice uttered in return, rolling over more fully to her side, lifting her head long enough for Helena to retract her arm and flex her hand awake. Myka watched her, regarded her as she had felt eyes regarding her a moment earlier, and saw something she had seen before. When Helena had stood on her landing and not said a thing, her brows had furrowed in a way she had not seen her do before, nor since. One brow slightly raised above the other, as if the slight action was at all able to prevent tears. That furrow was there again, and after such a heavenly early morning, and such a delightful sleep, no matter how short, Myka was worried as to _why_ exactly it was there at all. “Helena...”

“I don’t deserve you.”

Myka was worried, but still only just waking up nonetheless, uninterested in dramatic objection, and so she simply asked, “why?” She watched Helena’s face change, that furrow disappear and her eyes flicker around nervously. Perhaps she had simply expected Myka to oppose her, and not ask so rationally for a reason. “Why do you not deserve me?”

“Because you are smart, and kind, and generous,” Helena tried.

“You too are smart,” Myka pointed out, moving her hands across ruffled sheets to find the edges of Helena’s – her – pyjamas. “And have been nothing if not kind and generous towards me,” she continued, walking her fingertips deftly across the other woman’s bare stomach. “A little secretive perhaps,” now a poke in jest, “but so, so kind.”

“You are a good person,” Helena continued in her own protest.

“And you are not?”

“No.” Simple. Perhaps true.

“What makes you not a good person then?” Myka wondered, seeing in her head a scene where she stood below Helena’s cross, trying to reason with her to come down, to simply be reasonable.

Helena paused, took in a few shallow breaths as she tried to drown out the screams of what she’d done to form a simple explanation that she had simply done them; keeping _them,_ of course, as vague as possible for now. “The things I have done. To some, they may be seen as terrible. Heinous.”

“Do you think they are terrible?”

Helena raised her eyebrows, tilting her head a little as she analysed herself. “Not within context.”

Myka’s wandering hands stilled their gentle drawings on Helena’s side, changing to a firm grip on her flesh instead, a steadying one. “You are safe here, Helena.” She waited for her words and that grip to resonate, and when nothing much changed she moved her hand away. She picked up Helena’s hand and pressed it flat to her own chest just as firmly. “You are safe here. And so,” a soft pause to catch Helena’s eyes as they dropped away nervously, emotionally. “Whenever you decided to tell me what you think makes you a bad person, whether it be later today, next week, months from now, you will give this context as well and I will understand.”

“You won’t leave me?” Helena’s wavering voice managed. Myka had not heard the other woman’s voice when she had tears in it. She breathed it in, and smiled, with a little cheek when her next words settled in her mind.

“How can I leave if you will not have me?”

“Hmm?”

“Have me, Helena.” She paused, waiting for Helena to hear her. She did with a few unsure blinks. “Take me,” and she moved her hand on Helena’s, taking it to the bottom of her own shirt and then back up again, underneath it across her bare skin. “Take my lips, my arms, my body,” and weakly, she felt herself, she gasped as the other woman’s hand moved away from the grasp of her own and found the soft underside of her breast. She continued breathily, with her heart in her throat, “wake me up by taking me because you are safe, and I will not leave you.”

Helena did as she was told, for she rarely ever listened to herself, but would listen to Myka for as long as that voice found her, pushing herself up and over. That once numb arm slid beneath shoulders and curls again, knees nudging kindly to fit in between others, and her lips coming down, coming together with Myka’s in the proper good morning she had wished to give her all along.

As lips pressed to hers – and there were moments where they didn’t move, only lingered to feel and be immersed – Myka recalled the moments when she thought that she’d lose her virginity. She’d often thought that it would have been to Sam. As her top was pushed up and directed off the elegant length of her arms, she recalled the thoughts of her first time in that they’d be the sweet expectation that her parents had filtered through to her; that society had as well. That she would be getting married by the age that she was now, and then do the sweet and heterosexual love making she had seen implied of in movies and whispered about in her books. As she grew, and learned about herself after Sam and how she may exist as a woman without him and any other man, she soon – over years – began to find that she’d really rather not have anything so ordinarily sweet. That her mind, heart, body and soul were not destined for any preconceived idea of _sweet_.

Of course, what Helena was doing to her body at times, so delicate and feathery as she edged flannel pyjama pants down her legs and off the hook of her ankles was sweet, but in a whole other way than she’d ever thought the word could mean. When she’d gotten to college she was freer somehow to feel things and discover exactly what kind of sweet she was after. There were a number of girls she met and saw on campus and in class that she found attractive, and there were even a few that she had spoken to. Otherwise, it was a rather taboo subject to broach casually with the other girls, especially when they were ogling the boys in class and asking Myka which she found attractive. “Oh, I really don’t...” and then she’d taper off, glad for her close enough friendship with Abigail for the other woman to know about Sam, and change the direction of conversation. Not close enough for her to know outright of her attraction to women – although she was sure Abigail was astute enough to come to that conclusion as well – but close enough nonetheless.

Myka had also not ever really known what she was to expect from her desired version of sweet, and perhaps that was because she had only ever imagined, piecing together what little she could from her books, and not from anything else. She wondered – because although Helena was making her way across Myka’s body, onto it, and at times a fraction into it, she was still herself after all, and Myka’s self never stopped thinking – how exactly Helena knew what to do with her hands, her mouth and her breath. _Her breath!_ Myka’s mind screamed all of a sudden, because in an instant that was all that was touching her, and she had no idea how or when it had happened, but only that it was, and she was still quivering and feeling every pulse of her heart through every nerve and inch of her skin.

She trembled a little as that breath marked a scorching line down from her collarbones to her ribs, the soft side of her breast and torso, and then to her tummy and hips, before her thighs were blown apart – and oh, how easily she let them fall away – and she opened up like the lilies she had on her shop windowsill; blooming, breathing in life, perhaps only now living for the first time in her life. _Sweet, sweet_ , her mind muttered, and it was turning slowly into something less than words, more like feelings as she felt Helena’s now-bared shoulders bump against her thighs, her weight settle softly onto the mattress beneath her, her hands come to tenderly support the outsides of Myka’s thighs. _Sweet_ , her mind groaned as her eyes fluttered open for only a moment and saw dark hair splayed across her thighs and lacing flush across the rise and fall of her hip bones.

_Sweet_ , her mind felt as the soft skin of her inner thigh tingled at the approach of Helena’s lips, ignited by the somehow still cool tip of her nose. And then it was there, the tantalising, titillating and utterly intoxicating sweet sensation that she had never been able to prepare for. Helena’s plump and warm, moist and hungry lips pressed an open kiss to her thigh, and that groan from within that her mind had uttered made its way out and she was unable to think anymore. Only feel, and get lost in that feeling.

And that feeling was only but the start.

~ ~ ~ ~

The sun high in the sky, and they were close to finished. Myka felt in her bones that she may combust from the heat her body produced, that her body and Helena’s moving against each other had produced, and she thought that she would very much love to. The Englishwoman’s body was beneath her at one time, beside her, and was now – filled with a sudden burst of energy after already a few times – above her. From where she sat, muscles tensing and working hard to keep her up and holding the woman who ground against her hand as she straddled, Myka was mesmerised by the vein on her neck, swelling and relaxing as the flush up Helena’s neck fluctuated.

With another few deep breaths, reverberating in her throat so temptingly that Myka felt a burst of energy herself and strained her body up higher so that her mouth could suck at that spot, kiss and draw as much of Helena into her as she could mortally manage, the other woman, her London Lady quite literally came down upon her.

They collapsed a moment later, breathless and breathing hard all at once, bone to bone, breast to breast, lips a heartbeat away from each other. Not wanting to encase or claim, like she feared Helena might perceive her hold, Myka let her hands merely sit against damp skin. But oh, how she smiled and melted as it was Helena whose arms clung to her, hands curling around arms and grasping at soft flesh, pressing her face firmly into Myka’s neck in the most intense nuzzle either had ever experienced, but neither denied each other of.

This, that, and everything, Myka realised, was exactly the kind of sweet she had always dreamed of.

Helena eventually rolled off her, allowing fresh cool morning air to grace their skin where lips had been for the past hours. The silence was content, comfortable, cosy in a way that it had never been before. Taking a deep breath in suddenly seemed like she was tasting air for the first time in her life. She was anew with sweat still glistening on freckles like stars. She placed her hand to her tummy, feeling warmth, wetness, Helena still there in some form or another, and felt the beginnings of rumbles from beneath.

Helena did the same and felt the same, a rumble to which there was a noticeable sound, echoed in Myka’s chuckle beside her.

“Hungry?” the curly-haired, wild-haired woman asked.

“Famished. In need of energy as well,” Helena responded, arching her back a little against damply coated sheets to stretch, create more air flow, wake herself up from being a body of feeling and sensation to allow her to be a person who was hungry and thirsty, and desiring to move upright for a change.

“Coffee as well, then?”

“Please,” and so Myka rolled her worn body up and over to the edge to stand. _What to do_ , she asked herself, looking at her clothes and Helena’s discarded on the end of the bed and the floor. The sun was warming the apartment nicely; she could go without clothes entirely if she wanted, but having never done that, bent down to pick up her button-up that was folded and placed beside her bed the night before. She shrugged it on, buttoning only a few buttons, enough buttons, before stepping off to the kitchen.

Filling the kettle slowly, she looked back over to Helena still laying in bed, the sunshine reflecting against her skin with a gleam; she glowed as Pete must have seen Myka’s mere cheeks doing many a Sunday night ago. _Pete..._ she thought, and also thought about how she would most likely always see Helena in that bed now that she had been there. If she was to have people over again, _Pete_ over again, she would very much like to not go into hysterics of blushing by simply looking at her bed or anywhere where the Englishwoman’s naked body had been.

“Do you like antique markets?” she asked, placing the kettle to the stove.

“Well, I have sold items there before,” Helena stated rather obviously as she rolled to her side, propped up on an elbow, breasts simply _there_. Myka stared. Helena knew she was staring. She shimmied a bit and Myka choked on nothing. “Are you asking me to go shopping with you, darling?” Helena said, saving the both of them from... was it possible to blush so hard that one might faint?

“Well, yes,” Myka managed, her bottom jaw quivering for some ungodly reason. She clamped her mouth shut and forced as much of a casual smile as she could manage, although she very much would’ve liked to laugh at herself. Helena did the laughing for her, light and airy with a knowing hum at the end. “I think I might like to get some sort of partition for my bedroom.”

“May I ask why?”

“You see, my bed was always simply a place to sleep, and read. But now...”

“Now...” Helena hummed, sitting up to cross her legs in front of her, again, everything so very bare. Myka didn’t hide her blush at all this time, whether she had tried to or not.

“It’s something else. A place for something else,” Myka continued.

“Yes, it is.”

“And I’m not entirely sure that I want other people to look at it, now that I know it’s... capable of something else.”

“A bit of privacy, then.”

Myka smiled and said, “exactly.”

“Just for us,” Helena smiled in return.

Coffee was poured and Helena pulled on her own button-up, just so that Myka didn’t feel over-dressed, she joked. “What would you like to eat?” Myka asked, opening her little refrigerator.

“Oh, no,” Helena protest, closing the door and pressing her back to it, essentially trapping herself between it and Myka. “I’m making breakfast.”

“Really?”

“I’d like to.”

“Alright then. I’ll just... sit, and drink my coffee, shall I?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Helena said, bouncing up on her toes just enough to peck Myka’s lips before sending her to the chair she had been sitting in as coffee was brewed. She grabbed out eggs and bread, a few mushrooms that had seen better days but could still be sautéed nicely, and milk. “Scrambled eggs?”

“Sounds about like all that I have,” Myka laughed before nodding. She crossed her legs in front of her, slouching a little in her chair – that was cool against her bare backside, but she didn’t mind much at all – to sip at her coffee and watch. Meals had been made for her many a time over her life; lunches and obviously dinners by Pete and Amanda, but never a breakfast, or more specifically, a morning-after breakfast. She’d barely had a bite, and she knew already how delicious it was going to be.

As Helena prepared herself in the kitchen, opening cupboards and selecting the implements she needed, she hummed a little to herself. A summery little tune that Myka couldn’t place, and that Helena never repeated any sort of chorus to, and so she supposed it was just mindful humming to create background noise. The Englishwoman readied her pan and scooped in a decent lob of butter to melt. She picked up the eggs that were beside her and cracked them into a separate bowl one by one.

In her mind, Helena counted and noted things that were generally absent-minded to her, but now had a weighty significance. One egg; enough for just her when she had first moved to New York, barely a grown woman and barely choosing to nourish herself properly. Two eggs; what she would prepare for her grown and more practical self now on perhaps a Sunday morning, or a night of breakfast for dinner. Three eggs; she paused above it as it settled among the other two. She breathed in heavily, more noticeably than she had wished. Three eggs, and she perhaps had hoped to smooth over the significance of it, thinking that perhaps her simply divine morning with Myka would fade it into nothingness. She shook her head as her hands came down with the broken shell to sit on the counter. Nothingness was a betrayal. How could she have thought nothingness was ever going to be possible. Nothingness was not the root of her plan.

She felt her tears grow warm and burn, tears beginning to spill over the edges of her eyelids. Lips parting, she chocked out a sob, a whimper and a groan from deep within, reverberating in her ribs.

Myka stood up from the chair and practically ran to Helena, reaching out to her, but not touching, not breaking in on something she wasn’t sure of. “Helena?”

“I’m sorry, Myka...”

“No,” she said, and rounded enough to take the broken shell from equally fragile fingertips that had begun to shake. She tossed the shells in the small waste bin by the sink, where the others sat atop the rest of Myka’s rubbish, not nearly as cracked. She moved back to Helena and guided her over to the sink, running warm water to clean her hands, to massage them with soap and sooth her calmly. “Do not apologise,” she whispered, and then after a while with dry hands, “do you want to talk about it?”

“I do,” Helena said with conviction, nodding her head as she passed the hand towel back to Myka. She crossed the apartment, rounding the bed and reaching out to the pile of shimmering chain on the far bedside table. She picked the necklace up and carried it to Myka, the locket sitting in the palm of her hand as she walked, staring down at it.

All Helena wanted; all she had ever wanted was to live. She had read books and seen many a traveller pass her at Kings’ Cross as she was forever to hold her mother’s hand and never run away. She had not known exactly what to do with her dreams, only ever feeling them, but she knew nonetheless that she would make them happen. Once London had grown small to her mind, and she felt that she could find her way home from any point in it had she been dropped randomly, she knew she had to leave.

Alas, she had realised this at the age of twelve, and so had to wait. All she had wanted was to not have to wait anymore. One day, she hoped that she might be able to simply decide to live, and then live it. London taught her who she was, but who she was evidently, was a woman of the world. Her mind was not limited and could not be. She was capable of more than her family had impressed upon her. Older brother – only by birth, not mentality, Helena constantly noted much to his chagrin – Charles was her only supporter at times it seemed. She’d fix his toys, whether stuffed or mechanical, and her words would carry her to win an argument at family dinner parties, even when she was but a teenager. He was her biggest fan, and helped her to afford the long and weary sea voyage over to the new world when she had only just turned eighteen. There was a man she had met at a few of those dinner parties who she suspected heavily was to be her husband. He bored her on sight, and so she ran. She ran for more reasons than that, but nonetheless, the mere idea of him made her run.

New York City was what she felt that she wanted, and yet she never felt like she imagined she would. Still, she continued. She wanted _more_. And she would get it, or at least that was what she told herself.

All Helena wanted, when she broke it down on her quiet nights with dull street lights, stars and candlelight illuminating her small room, was happiness. She dreamt and imagined, wondering how she might make it happen; money, drugs or alcohol perhaps, for they seemed to at least imitate it, or love. But she had run always from everything she’d ever loved, because whilst she’d loved it, she’d felt limited, misunderstood, invisible by it and to it.

And then there was Christina, and she had never felt so seen in her life. She pushed herself every day to be the happiness that her daughter needed to have her own. All she wanted was Christina’s happiness. And then it was taken, and what she wanted turned dark. Her happiness became vengeance, retribution, justice. All she wanted was her happiness, but knew that it was most likely lost forever.

Then on a cold early autumn’s day, while she had been walking with pace, and bullying the blisters on her heels to only make her _feel_ again, she stopped into a bookstore, cold and to a point of emotional exhaustion that she had not been to in years. She saw Myka, she saw a smile that was, to her lost eyes, reminiscent of a home that she once found her happiness in, and so she found herself with a spark. There was a sudden fire within her, to bring to life again, to fight again, to be happy again.

All Helena wanted, had found her when she thought she was pitifully invisible again.

As the locket was gingerly offered to her, Myka picked it up again, like she had the night before – with more trepidation this time, however – and opened it. Again, she saw the sweet photograph of a young girl, dark waves like her mother cascading around her shoulders and fixed above her head with a sweet and symmetrical bow. Again, she peered up at Helena to see comparisons, and her reaction. She was unlike she was the night before. Then, Helena had been unnerved, calm, bold even. Now, without alcohol nor Myka’s assertiveness to guide her through, she was crumbling like the side of a glacier.

“I worked as a seamstress in New York. Long hours, my fingers always hurt, but the man who owned the small business, Caturanga, was kind enough to let me sew my darling girl some nice dresses. I didn’t want her to look like the place that she lived in.”

“What do you mean? New York?”

“A slum house; the only place that would rent a small apartment to a single mother.” Looking up to Myka, she laughed a little as she continued, “I thought too late to lie and say that Christina’s father was killed in the war or something. They knew that I was simply a woman who had part-taken in pre-marital sex and was met with the consequences of her _loose morals_.” Myka let out a breath of laughter, but her face did not relay the expression of laughter.

“Who was her father?”

“Would you be disgusted if I said that I really don’t know?”

“No.” It was the truth.

“Either way, he was a man who I had met in a club when I was a waitress, and had become too friendly for my own good with. The club, mind you, that also sacked me after finding out I was pregnant,” Helena sniffled. Myka moved to pull out a chair, but Helena simply stepped around her as she looped her necklace on, intent on keeping busy so that she didn’t crumble even further into the depth. “My mother, bless her heart and gendered ideals, had taught me to sew as a young child. There were many a stuffed toy that I had fixed for my brother, Charles, as we were growing up. Now, it helped me to secure a new job.”

“As a seamstress?”

Helena nodded as she mixed in milk with the now beaten eggs. “He was a severely kind man, insisting on many an occasion that I play a game of chess with him when we did not have clothes to mend or suits to alter. Even when we did, he found certain chess games more important,” she chuckled, and Myka smiled from behind her turned back.

“Tell me about Christina,” Myka prompted after a lull. Caturanga sounded awfully nice and kind – she thanked him from beyond time and distance – but it was not his photo kept in that locket by Helena’s heart.

“She was six, and had to terribly take herself home from school many an afternoon because alterations or sewing machine difficulties,” and she turned to Myka, pointing her wooden spoon at the still half-dressed woman. “I swear, I would have been a much better seamstress if I didn’t have to meddle every day with temperamental technologies. I’m sure that they have helped many a house wife, but my fingers are more than capable of getting the job done, and at a much better standard.”

Myka couldn’t help herself: “I’m well aware of how capable your fingers are, Helena, but Christina...”

Helena smirked softly, as best she could at the other woman’s sly and insinuating remark, before continuing. “I’d, on the odd occasion, and believe me if I could have gone home earlier to be with Christina, I would have. But we needed every cent I could earn, and so those later days provided two loaves of bread that week instead of one, you see. That particular day...” her voice tapered off as her breath became heavy again, the air cold betraying the heat of her face. Myka stood up from her chair and crossed to Helena, turning her the slight amount so that they faced each other. She kissed a worried forehead, battered with creases as tears were held at bay, and then stepped back to prop herself up and onto the counter. “That particular day,” Helena eventually continued. “The sewing machine was playing up an awful lot. To have a man come in and service it, while also berating the knowledgeable Caturanga and myself on how to properly manage the equipment, was expensive. And tiring. But my fingers.”

“Oh, the talent of your fingers, I’m sure,” Myka slipped in, keeping the tone as distanced from absolute sorrow and despair as possible, although she was sure it was going to end up there in the end anyway. If not today, with basic, overview explanation, then most certainly later on, in perhaps their third or fourth conversation of Christina and her individual nuances – for she was sure an entirely too adorable young British-American hybrid child of Helena’s would be nuanced and simply delightful, even at the age of six.

“I had to tend to a particularly difficult client, but I also tinkered with the machines a bit, which come to think of it possibly did set them into a bit of a stressed overdrive, but nonetheless. I was able to fix it, finally, and by then it was after dark. I’d told Christina never to climb to reach the light switch by herself. It was so dark, and when I got home, she was...” _dead._

“Helena, I’m so sorry,” Myka said, hopping down from the counter as quickly as she had gotten up there to slide her warm hands up Helena’s arms to her shoulders, then to cradle her head as it lolled miserably, and tears fell.

“No,” Helena demanded of herself, it seemed, and her eyes wandered about the room as best she could manage, almost as if she were searching; for what exactly, Myka could not decipher. “She was so cold. She was weak and cold, and would never...” Helena closed her eyes tightly. “Taken in the night,” she whispered. At this point of the story, of the grey area where blurred truths lived, tapering off her sentences under the wavering of her voice was the only thing she found herself able to fall into comfortably, safely. She needn’t have continued with anything else, for Myka’s arms were around her, embracing her and holding her against her as well as merely up at all, hands braced around ribs and her head rocking into the side of Helena’s to nuzzle. “I haven’t made breakfast for anyone else but myself since her...”

The eggs had long stopped bubbling on the simmering stovetop before either woman had remembered it was there. They were beginning to brown, but Myka quickly saved them from ruin and waste, turning off the stove and moving the pan entirely off the glowing hotplate. Neither felt very hungry when it came to it, however, but enough was consumed so that their stomachs were no longer rumbling, and no worry was raised at what eventually was discarded into the waste bin.

They washed up together, quietly but comfortably. Helena was glad to have told Myka, to have shared a piece of her with her, if even it wasn’t the entire story just yet. It was a start, a decent first few chapters of her own story.

It was just after noon when Helena emerged from the bathroom after cleaning her teeth with a spare brush, and clearing her head with cool water. She’d had a shallow bath which was enough to renew her and for long enough that she was ready to face the world again. Myka was sitting on her newly made bed, with new sheets, Helena could see by the crisp yellow stripes now as opposed to the off white they had been. “When will you wash your sheets?” she asked.

Myka stood, dressed in a slightly-oversized orange t-shirt under her favourite (and Helena’s) overalls. “Tomorrow. Or this afternoon if you are to leave me soon?”

“Heavens, no,” Helena assured enjoying the other woman’s bright smile that appeared. “Where do you do your washing, I wonder? I notice that you don’t have the facilities.”

“There’s a laundromat down the street,” Myka stated, standing up to grab Sam’s jacket that was sitting on the edge of the couch.

“Ah, the infamous laundromat,” Helena said, as mysteriously as one could about a laundromat.

“Why do you say that?”

“Do your socks go missing?”

Myka paused, the varsity sweater hanging over her elbow. “At times.”

“There we go,” Helena said with a wave of her hand, as if her point had been proved, but in reality, Myka was only more confused than she was before the statement. “You see, darling, but Christina and I simply washed our belongings in the kitchen sink. We never lost a thing. Friends however, or simply our neighbours, often uttered their perplexed anger about losing socks. Christina believed laundromats evil places, capable of the most devious things.”

“She was six.”

“And wise beyond her dimples.”

“Was she very interested in science fiction?”

“Terribly. Once discovering that there was a writer out there who was _mummy’s name twin_ , as she put it, then she was rather hooked. I was to read Mr Wells’ novels on many a night for her entertainment.”

“How interesting it would be, I think, to hear Mr Wells’ words spoken in Miss Wells’ voice.”

“I shall read to you some time then,” Helena said with a confirming nod. “Now, where are we off to?”

“The markets.”

“Oh, your flowers!”

“Hugo will have saved some lilies for me, I’m sure.”

“How kind of him. But what ever am I to wear, dearest Myka? I cannot very well wear an evening gown, perhaps a little stained with wine.”

“Rummage my wardrobe. I’m sure there’s something to wear. Or you can stay here; I’ll only be a minute.”

“Oh, no,” she protested. “I would very much like to throw coy smiles at you over the petals of roses again,” and Myka smiled in return, thinking of the softness of petals on her lips, and how she’d like to intimately compare them and Helena’s skin quite literally side by side. “I do have to leave before sunset, I’m afraid, and I do so very much dislike that I do.”

“An arrangement?” Myka asked, almost understandingly.

“Yes.”

“Well, until then, we have flowers. So, find something to wear so we may stroll for as long as I may have you,” and again, Helena did as she was told, a soft smile on her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember crying while writing this chapter, which shouldn't really make it stand out any more than the other chapters, because I cried during most of them too. A very emotional human being, your author is. Let me know your thoughts xx


	15. FIFTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shift and it turned back to how it was before. Except that it wasn't how it was before... it was better.

Pete stood by the head of the table, Amanda bustling around in the kitchen behind him as usual while he stared at Myka sitting on her spot of the couch, wine in hand. He was smiling softly. Amanda soon brushed past him with a hot tray of baked vegetables, and that was his cue, and so he set off into the kitchen ahead of her to help carry food out for dinner. Myka stood and waltzed over to the dinner table, taking her seat by the wall.

A moment later, all were seated, letting out a contended sigh at the gorgeous spread before them, and signifying that they may start reaching over glasses and pepper shakers to reach whatever their stomachs were rumbling for. Myka set her wine glass aside, far out of the path of her intended reach. It was her third already this evening, although she felt that it had done nothing for her disposition. She was already mellowed and content before even arriving that afternoon.

She was just reaching for the tongs, intent on grabbing some potatoes that Amanda had “seasoned with my own rosemary,” she had said, when Pete spoke factually.

“You’re glowing again. It’s good.”

Both women froze a little and looked at each other, then to Pete who seemed as if he had not uttered a word, reaching for those potatoes that Myka had evidently abandoned. “Am I?” she asked, a hum of a smile on her lips, for she knew she was, regardless of wine or not.

“Yeah.”

“You are, Myka,” Amanda joined in.

“I know,” and now it was Pete and Amanda who shared looks of... something. Bemusement, pride perhaps, or simply a different sort of glow just for themselves when they recognised their happiness in someone else.

“How is she?” Pete asked, and all knew who he was referring to.

“She’s well. I hope she’s safer.”

“In what way?” Amanda asked, before taking a bite of her food and waving her fork about as if to dismiss the question. “You don’t have to answer,” she mumbled.

“No, it’s alright. I hope she feels safer with me. More comfortable and confident in telling me things of importance. I don’t know...”

“That’s good, Mykes.”

“I think so,” and that little hum of a smile broke into a soft beam, the glowing in her eyes now.

“You should ask her around for Sunday dinner sometime,” he continued, and her smile dropped.

“I’m not sure... it’s...” and she hated her wording before she’d even said anything more, for it was cliché, but accurate. “Complicated.”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

“Whenever you want, _if_ you want,” Amanda chimed in, reaching her hand across the corner of the table to Myka’s and squeezing it. “We just want you to be happy,” she smiled.

“Thank you.” Myka smiled and nodded, squeezing Amanda’s hand back and then letting go and bringing both hands into her lap, plate still empty. “I’ll keep the offer in mind,” she said, with a questioning lilt in her voice, as if she wasn’t even sure that she would agree to it later if she asked herself. How could she be sure?

_How can I be sure and honest,_ she asked herself as equally as it was asked of her. _If I’m still not completely sure of Helena, how can I be sure of myself..._

“Do we have a date yet?” Myka asked, finally able to start scooping dinner onto her plate.

“We’re thinking spring,” Amanda answered, her heart practically skipping through the thin cotton that covered her chest.

“Of next year?”

“Or the year after,” Pete answered. “Depending on funds.”

“Dad can’t afford too much of a fairy tale wedding,” Amanda began. “Now that he’s by himself.” Amanda’s mother had passed away a half a dozen years before, from a terrible bout of influenza. Amanda had just begun to get back on her feet emotionally when she’d met Pete, and thought of him as the light at the end of the tunnel she had always envisioned to help her keep going. “But Pete’s parents...” she said, turning to him with a thankful smile.

“They’re going to chip in some money as well, but again, aren’t able to make it a fairy tale wedding.”

“Well, if ever you need some money, or help in any way planning, do call on me,” Myka said, finally sitting with a plate of food, even though Pete had practically finished his already.

“Oh, no, Myka,” Amanda insisted, waving about her fork again.

“No, I mean it. Even to help find flowers, or something. Perhaps we’ll go shopping,” she said, reaching her hand out to Amanda’s. “And I’ll buy you that something new.” They shared a smile, and then both looked to Pete to share that smile with him as well. A happy little family.

“We don’t deserve your love,” Amanda said.

“Especially since we can’t make it to game night on Wednesday,” Pete finished with a trepidatious smile, teeth bared.

“We’re having dinner with Dad,” Amanda explained and Myka smiled.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I still love you.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Wednesday afternoon had Myka receiving a phone call from Claudia, thankful days later for the woman’s support at The Warehouse. Myka was sure to thank her in return, for if she hadn’t had been invited, she wouldn’t have run into Helena as she had at the time dreaded, and she most certainly wouldn’t have ended up with her later that night in bed, and then the next morning hearing her moans muffled against her skin. But, of course, Claudia did not need to know exactly why she was thankful and so she simply said, “I had a simply marvellous time.”

It was true.

Myka asked how the other woman was, and what her life consisted off now that her focus and love had turned to music instead of technological advancements in the world, where she was living, and obviously if she would ever like to grab a coffee to catch up more properly. “Joshua is pretty chill, despite having to now live with his kid sister, but he’s great. He doesn’t seem to mind at all that I’ll come home from time to time with a guy or a girl and start playing the guitar for them,” Claudia said, laughter in her voice.

“Or a girl?”

“Yeah. I guess... I never really told you, did I?”

“No, but I’m happy for you, and happy that you’ve felt safe enough to tell me,” Myka answered. “I like girls myself.”

“I figured as much.”

“How? Because I seemed to know my way about The Warehouse, or simply know it at all?”

“Um, no, Miss Bering. I’ve suspected since probably the first time I met you, and you blushed when a female classmate congratulated you on your senior seminar.”

“Oh, god, I hope I’m not still that obvious.”

“Don’t worry,” Claudia ensured. “I only noticed because I was looking... for that. I thought you were stunning and so I was practically wired to know when you were feeling some sort of Sappho-inspired way.”

“I’ve never heard it referred to like that,” Myka laughed at the euphemism involving the ancient Greek poet. “And thank you, because you know as well as I how unsuited for this world _we_ are.”

“I know. That’s why The Warehouse doesn’t get mentioned.”

“How could you have been sure when you asked me to come and watch you? I mean simply, how could you have known that I wasn’t heterosexual and that I wouldn’t have... been completely spooked?”

“I wasn’t. And I couldn’t have known. But I suppose for us, for people like us, it’s enough to have an inclination about it. Thinking, would a _heterosexual_ Myka have blushed so profusely after a simply congratulatory hand shake? No. So she isn’t. Simple.”

“If only everything was that simple.”

“But, happier topics now. I’d like to catch up with you again,” Claudia said. “I don’t really know that many people, it turns out, to be social with.”

“Well,” Myka began, thinking ahead to that night and how Steve and Leena were _people like her_. “I’m having some friends over tonight for dinner and some card-playing. I’m sure you’d like them and that they’d like you too.” She paused, and could practically hear Claudia’s excited intake of breath in anticipation of the invitation. “Would you like to come?”

“I’d love to,” the other woman rushed immediately. “Would you like for me to bring anything? A bottle of wine at all?”

“If you like. We did get a little bit carried away last week and finished the only bottle of wine we had before we even had dinner, so maybe an extra bottle or two would go well.” Claudia laughed and agreed, and they hung up a moment later.

After she closed the store that afternoon, Myka crossed over to Leena’s and informed them of the extra guest that would be attending that night, giving Leena a wink over the counter after Steve had clapped his hands together in anticipation of beating yet another person at poker. While Leena was able to read people well, Steve could simply outright tell when a person was bluffing. It drove Leena quite mad at times, but in her own determined and searing-beneath-the-surface way. “Her name’s Claudia, by the way.”

“Oh?” Leena asked, as if she wasn’t secretly wondering what the guest’s name was. She was, and obviously Myka was even able to read it on her features.

“She plays the guitar.”

“Really?”

“Mmm,” Myka hummed with a nod, indicative of how she knew Leena liked female musicians. “She’s very good,” and at the last second added, “with her fingers,” for she knew how important a trait that could be in a woman. “You know... on the guitar.”

“Mmhm,” Leena answered with a smile, before swallowing a little thickly.

Myka left a few minutes later, intent on buying herself some more alcohol before the sun set, and found herself returning home with a bottle of whiskey as well as white wine. Maybe she wanted, she told herself, to call Helena again late at night, this time with whiskey strongly in her veins and see how that sort of early-morning visit might play out instead.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Ah, if only we were playing for more than almonds,” Steve said tragically as he raked in his latest winnings of almost sixty almonds. Claudia was going a bit hell-for-leather in her betting while Myka was cautious and folded more times than Steve would have liked.

“Ah, if only Pete and his hungry fingers were here to steal your winnings,” Myka said, equally raking in the discarded cards to shuffle. “And simply wait for Claudia to bet and lose all of hers.”

“Hey,” the woman in question said, picking up a sole almond from her quickly diminishing pile to pop into her mouth.

“Or eats them all! Claudia, stop,” Leena laughed, and so Claudia shot her a wink.

“Alright, one more hand and then we decide on what to order for dinner,” Myka said as she dealt. No one seemed to hear her, between Steve showing uncharacteristic and cheeky arrogance in counting his almonds aloud, and Leena and Claudia giving each other soft looks across the table. “Or I’ll just make sandwiches.”

“Woah, what are we? Pete? I think not,” Steve said, now losing count but not minding. “Wednesday night is for oily and unhealthy take-out food from now on.”

“If you say so,” Myka said, picking up her hand and neatly tapping their edge down on the table with a smile. “Claudia, stop picking up Leena and pick up your cards.” Everyone – except Claudia – enjoyed the younger woman’s intense blush that appeared, especially Leena who hid as best she could behind her hand, trying to make believe that she was really focussing on the game. Myka herself was bolder and braver in her noting of the flirtation happening before them all, much like she imagined Claudia was in enacting such flirtation, because of the wine.

The whiskey was unopened still. Myka decided before anyone arrived that she would be saving the whiskey for the right time, as if she knew ahead of it what it was to be, most likely because it was simply more expensive than the plain label wine sitting on the kitchen counter, empty. That wine, and thoughts of whiskey, distracted all at the games table apparently – the chairs surrounding of which bared of their books oddly for a change – and so it was another seven hands of poker before Steve remembered for Myka that they were supposed to be deciding on dinner.

It was after dark, long after seven o’clock and all stomachs but Claudia’s were empty. Mostly. Wine was not dinner, and a sudden burst of rumbles announced that fact as such. “Oh!” Myka exclaimed, before they all shared a laugh and she stood with Steve to grab their coats with intentions to wander the few blocks over towards the mall of Lincoln Park where there were many a restaurant that sold take out dinners. They would decide on a cuisine, and so Myka and Steve would walk to find it in the mall. As Steve was shuffling his coat on and then using his cupped hand to sweep his almonds across the table to Leena for safe keeping, Myka pulled on her ankle boots (hidden under her slacks) and stood atop the stairs waiting.

A sudden knock at the door caught only Myka’s attention as all the others were now squabbling about the almonds and how Claudia was offended that new best friend Steve didn’t trust her. She smiled at them and descended, opening her front door with a swoosh to see Helena, arms filled to her chin with brown paper bags, stained in the corners with wet grease. “Hello,” she said breathily with a grin.

“Have you eaten?” Helena asked, before there was a resounding chorus of shouts and mock argument from above.

“No, _we_ haven’t,” Myka said before nervously, apologetically, biting her lip.

“You have company. I’m so sorry, Myka.”

As the other woman – rugged up in her coat as usual, but one that was now very likely to smell of a healthy combination of Chinese and Mexican, perhaps some Italian somewhere in there as well – began to turn away, Myka reached out and pulled her back in by the bends of her elbows. “Meet my friends,” Myka argued.

“Are you sure that they would like someone who has made you hurt?” Helena asked, her hands gripping her cross, ready to begin climbing it again quite at will, and quite at any time.

“They don’t know that,” Myka said, coaxing her in further with a gentle hold. “And I’m sure that they will love you simply because you are supplying copious amounts of food when we have all had nothing other than wine all evening.”

“Oh, Myka,” Helena said as if trying to scald. “You should know better than that.”

“So feed me,” Myka winked, and she thought immediately that she would open the whiskey when they arrived upstairs. It was the right time. Helena was here and so it was time to share it with her, and taste what the burn felt like on her lips when hours later the others had left.

They began to ascend the stairs, and Helena found soon that she could blame her flush on the warmth of the apartment. She was overwhelmed with food still – even though Myka had taken two bags in her own arms... _how much did I buy?_ she wondered – but was incredibly eager to shake off her coat when they reached the top.

“Wait,” a voice sounded, and the rabble of voices quietened so that the voice could continue. _Steve,_ Myka mouthed down to Helena as the Englishwoman paused midway up the staircase. “Do you all smell food?”

“Are you sure you’re not alike Pete?” Myka asked of Steve, kicking off her boots as she reached the landing. “Smelling food before you even see it?”

“That’s just called being human and having a functioning nose, Miss Bering,” he retorted, and Helena was glad for the smile that appeared on her face as she reached the top as well. She did not much want her first sighting by the eyes of Myka’s friends to be of the nervous kind. A smiling, kindly expression was much more favourable, and she doubted that she would have been able to muster one as such with it being of any genuine essence at that moment with the flutter of unsureness behind her ribs.

“Well, Mr Jinks, let your nose be thankful to darling Miss Wells,” she said in her obviously wine-induced, yet natural flare of prose way, extending a loosely coated arm towards the woman that she spoke of. “Everyone, this is Helena, and she has brought us dinner,” and oh, the chorus of cheers and claps, Steve tossing his coat triumphantly again over the back of his chair. It was practically all too much noise for only three other people at not even yet eight o’clock.

“How much wine have you all had?” Helena asked, glad for her arms to be relieved of their weight by a joyously grinning young woman, that she had only seen in the distance and on a stage before.

“Only two bottles, but _some people_ thought that they might enjoy a few drinks of their own before arriving here,” Myka answered, a cheeky smile to Leena across the room who had only had such steadying drinks because she never really saw any girl look her way, and now she might be able to spend an evening of jest with her. Entirely too much for her heart, she had told Myka, and Myka had agreed knowing the exact feeling.

She felt it a little now, she discovered, her heart flipping about on itself instead of simply beating like the organ should, when she looked from Helena to grinning Claudia, and giggling Leena, then to head chef Steve. “If only Pete and Amanda were here,” she said to herself, although a little louder than she had expected to.

“Why?” Steve asked from across the room, for he had heard her voice carry. “So he could steal my... oh, fettucine!”

“No,” she answered, quieter this time. Steve was engrossed by the food now, and she really only wanted Helena to hear her next words. She turned to her, reaching out to take the Englishwoman’s coat and holding onto her clammy hands beneath the folded wool and fur. “Because then all of my heart’s closest people would be closest to it. I am so glad that you are here. With me,” then tilted her head dramatically to the rabble that had picked up again around the table. “With them.”

“I am glad that I’m here as well. With them, but always with you.” She paused and smiled, taking a deep breath in so much so that her chest raised nervously beneath her ducking chin, as she rocked up a little to her toes. She whispered, a painfully honest and enticing purse to her lips, “and I would very much love to kiss you right about now.”

Taking her coat completely now, Myka looked over to the group – all backs turned – and leaned in to press a chaste kiss to Helena’s cheek. “Later,” she whispered in return before hanging up the coat next to hers and bouncing off towards the scent of food.

When it came back to card playing, Myka was glad to have not placed a table cloth over the polished wood of her table. A damp cloth was easier to clean the mess from reaching across and dangling whatever food out of whatever container to reach the plate, or simply reach straight to the mouth. She liked her table clothes unstained, and while she was immensely glad that very little mess sat on the table where she or Helena sat – she would put out her best white cotton table cloth for their next breakfast – she could not be as impressed with the others. She wondered how Claudia could ever lean back so emphatically and boast that she was ‘stuffed like a green olive’ when most of whatever had tried to make it to her plate landed so far short of it.

She did, however, limit the amount of her own almonds she ate once betting came back into play. Steve was mightily perturbed that Helena won the first few hands, and put it down to the lack of alcohol in her system. She had downed a glass of wine and, now that that was finished, a whiskey as well, and so was bold enough to stand and waltz barefoot to the whiskey on the kitchen counter, glass in hand, and take a deep drink from the bottle itself before pouring another. Steve laughed, Claudia placed an almond, impressed, into her mouth and regretted it instantly to which Leena laughed because she hadn’t really been watching Helena at all, but Myka... Myka’s mouth was agape and she could inconveniently feel warmth grown between her thighs.

“Enough alcohol in my system now, Mr Jinks?” Helena asked as she crossed back to the table, running her hand daringly along the shoulders of her still stunned bookkeeper. He shrugged and went back to dealing the next hand, and so she brought her lips down to Myka’s ear as she sat down and asked her instead. “What do you think, Miss Myka?”

“I think...” and Helena sat back, but Myka could still feel the heat. The other woman was nowhere near her, but she could still feel the heat. “I think there’s not enough alcohol in my system.”

“Let’s change that, shall we,” Helena suggested, and Myka offered only a weakened sigh in return. “Later.”

“Thank you,” Myka said, although she was not sure as to why. Her head was heavy and could seem to only hold one thought at a time. Since Helena turned up at her door, her only thought _was_ Helena. Since Helena turned up at her store front door almost two months ago, her only thought was Helena. But she was also slowly losing almonds, and did not want to. She wanted to keep them, to trade them in for rose petals come the end of the night and scatter them delicately over Helena’s body, before hungrily comparing their textures.

Rose petals were soft, almond skins were soft, Helena’s body was _feathery_ and soft. Nothing in her mind would ever compare to the delicacy of pale skin smattered with ridges of stretchmarks, bumps of freckles and moles, dips of skin hugging ribs and hipbones.

“Myka, your hand,” Claudia said, frustratedly popping another almond into her mouth. She did not mind this time for it was washed down with a long draw of wine from her almost empty glass. Myka brought herself back, to the cold wood of her table and the air that she sharply brought in through her nose. She needed to take a moment from the warmth, the burning heat that she was so close to falling into. _Later_ , she repeated Helena’s word in her head. She would fall into the flame later. She would fall into Helena later. For now, she had almonds to win.

It made her heart smile that her hand contained the queens of hearts and diamonds. She wondered which she was and which was Helena. Looking over to the other woman before pushing out a whole five almonds, she saw her push the ring on her right hand around with her thumb. Her heart smiled again. Her heart smiled at her diamond.

~ ~ ~ ~

Everyone had left before midnight, but it was a long three-quarters of an hour once the suggestion had been made, for them to have all entirely left; and Myka had smiled the whole time. From their extensive goodbyes at the top of the stairs, pulling on coats and thanking each other for an entertaining and cosy evening, to the odd tangent conversations mid-way down, to the shuffling inside the door and laughing as exhaustion slowly began to take over their bodies as they sobered up, and then finally to the frosty street outside.

She had smiled the entire time, her arm occasionally settling around Helena’s waist when the group of them were snugly fit into one of the smaller spaces, because of how in those goodbyes and thank yous, many if not most filtered over to Helena. She was a welcomed addition to the night’s festivities, and a welcomed member to the group. She was witty and well-educated, often poking fun at society or simply at the other plays around the table, resulting in a chorus of laughter. Myka’s cheeks hurt and her tummy ached from smiles, food, laughter, and while she did not want to wake for work in the morning, fearing the extent of that looming exhaustion, she would not have had the night any other way.

Steve and Leena finally made their way across the street with a stagger and their too-loud voices echoing down the quiet street, and Claudia huddled under Myka’s arm until brother Joshua swung around in his equally echoing car to drive her home.

And then finally, as Helena had intended hours before, they were alone.

She was alone with Myka on the inside of her apartment’s bottle-green door, lingering in the warmth of the air and the smell of various foods from above. She really didn’t know, now that she thought of it practically, what the two of them would have done with so much food. Heaven knows, the cuisines of Italy and Mexico were not what her mouth was craving to taste when she decided to go over.

But now, as she followed Myka back up the stairs and accepted the help to remove her coat, she smiled the knowing smile she would have if the apartment was empty earlier in the evening. “Hello,” she whispered when Myka decided to push her coat off from in front as opposed to pulling it off from behind. Helena supposed the other woman was desperately wanting to be as close and intimate with her as possible, in each and every way that she wished to have been all night long. At least, that was what Helena was hoping; that was what Helena would have been doing if she were in Myka’s shoes, or rather, her socks.

“Hello, yourself,” Myka whispered back before stepping away to hang up the other woman’s coat, right beside her own. “Did you enjoy this evening?” she asked in the same soft tone, no need for raised voices when they were both alone and still so close.

“I did,” Helena said with a smile. “Immensely. I don’t often spend time with groups of people socially.”

“You mean... you don’t have friends?”

“I have Mrs Frederic... and Artie, I suppose.”

“Helena...”

“I do not have friends. I have you,” she offered with a hopeful lilt, as if she wasn’t entirely sure that she really did have Myka.

“And I aim to be the best friend that you’ve ever had.” Myka stepped toward her again, placing her hands to her shoulders and squeezing gently, in confirmation.

“The best friend or the best lover I’ve ever had?”

“Can I not be both?” Myka asked, sliding her arms across those shoulders and around the shorter woman’s neck, feeling hands come to her waist and wrap around similarly. “I would like to be both.”

“And I would very much like you to be both.” Helena secured her wish with a sweet smile, tilting her chin up to then meet Myka’s lips with her own. She hummed against them when they stayed, and tightened her arms around the taller woman’s waist, then her ribs, then hooking her hands up to her shoulder blades and shoulders as the soft press of lips turned into something deeper, hungrier and more demanding of each other.

It was odd that the thought spurred Myka on, but remembering back to how the table was cleared and any used dishes and cutlery were washed up hours ago made her all the more comfortable to melt into Helena. It would have been like her to pause and pull back, insist on cleaning the place just enough before falling into bed. To have somehow planned ahead for the serenity of this moment and the following ones to come was something she smiled into the kiss about, her teeth meeting the fleshy soft of Helena’s lips as they moved against hers.

They slowly moved together, against each other and across the floor, until they were in too harsh a glow to enjoy, and so they took the opportunity to breathe as they stopped to turn off lights and lamps, slowly guiding themselves by diminishing light to the bed. They came back together when the sole lamp by the bed was all that was on, and hands once again found their way across soft cotton and the cool of buttons and zippers.

A step to the side, and Helena was backed to the bed and eased down to it, Myka coming down with her. She let the other woman go as slow as she desired, beginning at first with edging her more soundly onto the mattress, and then bringing her body down atop her. Helena embraced the weight, feeling her hip bones press up into the tender of Myka’s tummy, and ribs press into her own in return. Myka’s lips moved to her jawline and then her neck, finding the slowly throbbing vein as she had mornings ago. Soon, there was a hum, but it was not one of ecstasy, but rather regret, and then Myka was dragging her body away and holding herself up with extended arms.

“What?” Helena asked, her hands gripping gently onto Myka’s arms and her head lifting to catch Myka’s gaze.

“I have to brush my teeth,” and Helena’s head dropped back to the mattress as she let out a breathy laugh. She did not deny Myka her hygiene, however, standing to follow as well to do her own teeth in harsh lighting.

Finally, again, they returned to the bed a few minutes later, Helena cheekily reaching an arm out to hold Myka back before she leant in to kiss her again, checking that they were alright to continue. “Nothing else to clean?” she asked, and Myka chuckled sleepily, but not tiredly. “You don’t want to wash your socks or something?”

“Helena,” she still laughed. “Stop talking and kiss me please.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure,” Myka answered, her sure hands coming to Helena’s shoulders again.

“No, I mean, if you’re sure that there’s nothing else to clean,” and Myka didn’t bother telling her to be quiet this time, for she let her lips do the job just as well in another way.

They kissed slowly and with purpose at first, as if it were almost choreographed and thought out beforehand – which, of course, both had done in every minute of every day that they had not seen each other, thinking of where they would kiss and touch, hold and caress – until shirts were carefully removed, and pants peeled as far down legs as arms could stretch without lips parting. Myka’s arms, oh so long, were still not the length of an elegant leg, however, and so she had to drag her lips away from Helena’s, but compromised with kisses to her almost bare chest and stomach, her hips and then thighs as her hands slowly removed pants, and her shoulders pressed knees apart.

Next, there was the delicious retracing of her steps, pressing kisses back up that lithe body that twitched under her touch as her nose had twitched with her smiles around the dinner table hours earlier. Helena’s underwear was lace, white and simple in design that still said they cost a pretty penny even though they weren’t French. Myka smiled against them when she pressed kisses there, thanking the other woman for her cares and receiving hearty moans in return.

A good while later, when that lace sat on the cold wooden floor and Helena’s hot body was stuck to her own, limbs entwined and draping, Myka whispered her thank you again into the sea of hair that rested beneath her chin. “And you,” a worn and slightly gravelly voice sounded from beneath her, and so she smiled, keeping to herself that she was simply thanking the gesture of lace underwear and not the pleasure that had waved through her body. Although, she was also so intensely thankful for that as well.

~ ~ ~ ~

The room had a glow to it when Helena’s eyes opened. It was not from anything inside the apartment, but rather the street lamp outside filtering in through the window. It was comforting, to not be immersed in utter darkness. Her body was curved behind Myka’s and her cheek pressed to the other woman’s bare back, covers brought up lazily above her own shoulders. Myka’s were bare, but she supposed Myka had a human sized hot-water-bottle essentially wrapped behind and about her to keep her warm.

Blinking her eyes a few times, she found them awake now, despite rolling over to see that she had only gotten a few short hours of sleep. She sighed and stretched, sitting up and reaching back behind her to pull those covers up and over Myka more completely, and then stood out of the bed. The air was cool, but not cold, and she supposed the clouds coming in had created a sort of natural blanket for Chicago overnight.

Still, her lover spent in the bed behind her, she went to Myka’s wardrobe and fumbled around as quietly as she could until her fingers found the undeniable weave of a woollen sweater. She pulled it on over her head, hoping that she had it on the right way, but didn’t mind either way before walking around the room in the faint light. She walked around to the kitchen table again, running her fingertips across the smooth until they found the deft shells of almonds where Claudia had sat. She smiled, and dusted them into her other hand, cupped by the edge of the table.

Once disposed in the bin, she walked around the kitchen, the cold of countertops and doorknobs making her hands retreat into her elbows as she wrapped her arms around her waist. The bookcase was looming in the darkness, and her eyes failed to read what the titles were, but she found Alice just the same. She brushed the spine, and rose to her toes so that she was able to press a kiss to it. In a moment of woken decision making, she found the lamp by the couch and turned it on, and once not finding anything in the shelves that her mind jumped to, her heart dragged her to the book on Myka’s bedside table with a pencil wedged in the back. Shakespeare.

Sitting with pages splayed before her, Helena didn’t read it all, but let her eyes dance over lines and words, character names and annotations that Myka had made during her various reads. After a third of the play, she found her annotations grew less in regards to the plot or what was being said, and instead what they made Myka feel. Little by little, small words, utterances, turned into underlining phrases in lieu of finding something to say instead in counter. Helena’s name was underlined with more and more intent, and then little hearts, and then a lone question: why?

“Why what?” Helena whispered to the abyss surrounding her. _Why did I walk into the bookstore? Why did I choose Myka? Why did I_... Helena paused. The next dog-eared page was only another few along, and Myka had remarked over dinner how she missed reading every night. She had not read in a while, perhaps over a week. Helena knew why. _Why did I hurt her_? “Oh, Myka...” she continued, looking up to the shadowy figure in the bed across the apartment from her. “If only you knew.”

She flicked ahead in the play, finding other annotations, old annotations from reading the story at a simpler time, in a simpler mindset, untroubled by the storm that was Helena. The pencil markings wrote practical wonderings, linked in understanding from lines previously spoken, and more underlining of phrases that struck a chord with the reader’s heart; Myka’s heart.

_Simply the thing I am shall set me free_.

Helena stared at it and thought, and then closed her eyes to think more visually. _The thing I am_... “That thing you are,” she whispered, opening her eyes and looking in the direction of Myka. “You are,” and she pulled out the pencil from the back of the book. “Brave,” she wrote. “Compassionate. Intelligent in more ways than your brain can imagine. Unique,” she said, remembering how lips had pulled away from hers hours before to clean. “Kind to others and yourself. Loved,” she rested the pencil at the bottom point of the _d_. “So loved, my Myka.”

“Helena,” she heard, before the sweep of a hand sounded across vacant sheets.

“Here, my love,” she said, closing Shakespeare with the pencil returned to the back. She was about to reach behind her to the lamp, to stand and return to her spot in bed behind Myka’s sweet body, but that body had already begun making its way to her. Bare skin with creases and patches of flushed skin, reddened by pressure against it, either moments before in sleep or hours before in passion, came closer and closer, slowly illuminated by lamp light to find her.

“Are you alright?” Myka asked as she rubbed her eyes.

“Yes,” Helena said, reaching her hand out to the other woman as she stood. Myka took her hand and brought it up to her lips. She kissed fingertips and then her palm, and looked down to Helena’s other hand.

“Bit of late night reading?”

“Not really.”

“Shall we try some late night sleeping instead?” Helena smiled and accepted, letting go of Myka’s hand only long enough to turn the lamp off. She held it again all the way back to the bed, enjoying the other woman’s simple desire, natural as it seemed, to remove the sweater from her and bring their naked bodies back together.

It was Helena, this time, wrapped from behind by Myka’s form, arms around her protectively and a nose pressing against the back of her neck. “Take me out tomorrow night?” Helena heard.

“Yes,” she said, hoping for a much better time at The Warehouse now that it was the third time around. Third time’s the charm, the saying was, but Helena had never much felt that she was worth three chances. She smiled and wriggled back into Myka as much as she could. She felt a kiss, heard a hum, and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted there to be ups and downs, but most of all I wanted it to be them, and for them to be sweet. Especially with each other. Thoughts?


	16. SIXTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A beginning to a sense of normalcy perhaps... but this isn't the happy ending. A happy middle for a time, let's say, but the ending cannot occur if there is still the villain of the story present. But... this normalcy... it is ever so lovely and tender, so let's bask in it, shall we.

Electricity was a precious commodity in the time after the war. Everything was. Money was scarce for a fair many people, and so ends were met with the attitude of survival and making do. Large businesses closed because people were being tighter with their purses, and in their end they equally could not afford to even pay for heat, or electricity, water bills. Myka’s budget from week to week was stuck to, and many a long night had been – and on occasion would still be – spent going over the numbers that her store presented to her. What hours should she keep so that a profit could be made but not so that it easily ticked backwards into breaking even or losing money.

What could she then afford in relation to book purchases to stock shelves with, and then what she could afford for her own day to day life. In her first year of business, she had opened back up much earlier than she really should have post-Christmas. January, for the most part, was as quiet as her afternoons were proving to be, and so this time around, she planned to keep the store closed until February. She had money to survive on in that time, and to still afford her splurge of weekly bouquets. She saved money on heat and water, and most of the time electricity too. She wasn’t frugal, but she was practical when it was a time that required her to be so.

As she sat at the bar dressed in her slacks again, and the white blouse from her first visit to The Warehouse, beginning to uncharacteristically roll her sleeves up to the elbows, she surmised that this club in particular most likely saved money on various things that other clubs would not. As far as she knew, The Warehouse was the only club of its kind until the other side of town, until the small lounge bar three blocks from the park which she frequented. Six blocks from her was a little lounge bar called the Knockbox that Steve would go to on his weekend evenings, Leena had told her.

Now that Myka thought of it, Steve seemed not to return until late the next morning many a weekend, and so she really should give Leena Claudia’s phone number... just to see what they wanted to do with that time, that potential privacy...

The Warehouse. The only one of its kind for blocks upon blocks, and so all of the... people like her – she supposed she’d have to come up with a better collective group name than that – within that radius always flocked in out of the cold and began creating warmth. No heaters or fire needed. The only main lights were over the stage (of which there were no more than three) and a few low-hanging dull lamps (for that was the mood of the establishment) over the bar. Other than that, little candles on each table and of course the few wall lights up on the mezzanine. The bathroom probably had the most light, and that was because even dull light seemed brighter when bouncing off white tiles.

Less electricity, more candles and body heat, and of course deep liqueurs warmed even the lone attendee to the bar. Myka sat at the bar with her own concoction in hand, Mrs Frederic down the far end tending to a few light-headed lovers, and then there was Helena behind her, using Myka’s broad shoulders for cover and the footrest of her stool to edge her over the counter just enough to swipe the whiskey bottle again.

It was Myka’s job to stay calm, to act natural and keep an eye out for Mrs Frederic, but it was most difficult to keep a straight face when there was a woman threatening to tip the stool over, and making various ungodly sounds in her struggle. “Helena, shush,” she shot over her shoulder.

“Almost,” came the strangled groan from behind her, and then she heard a slip and, “oh, fuck.” Myka crumbled, bringing her hand to cover her eyes as she laughed and almost wept tears from the ordeal, Helena trying to collect herself from behind.

“And just what,” came a deep voice, and the stool wobbled again as Helena came back to earth and Myka all but jumped out of her skin. “Do you think you two are doing?

“How do you do that?” she asked, in relation to the barwoman’s innate ability to seemingly pop up out of nowhere.

“Irrelevant,” she simply offered, and so Myka went on thinking the woman some mystical and ethereal creature from another world or time. “Miss Wells, what are you doing?”

“Whiskey, please,” came the sugary-sweet voice of the Englishwoman.

“One needs only ask, Helena, for it is my job to serve you,” and with a wink as she placed the bottle on the counter in front of Helena, Mrs Frederic glided back down to the other end of the bar.

Myka swivelled herself around on her chair to face Helena now, still dabbing a fingertip to the corners of her eyes where tears of laughter had been. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Not nearly as fun, my love.” Myka laughed again, and she supposed she was right. To be straight-forward, upfront, and direct, words were one’s best asset. But to create _something_ , a spark or an adventure in some way, no matter what way, to use one’s body was a whole other asset. Hence, climbing over the counter for the sneaky satisfaction of obtaining the whiskey, and for Myka’s entertainment. And hence, later that night when words of a whisper could ask, beckon, direct, instead hands were doing the telling, fingers the beckoning, looks the asking, moans the directing, bodies the speaking of everything that was richer and heightened, electrified and as finite as a candle’s flicker.

Helena was right. In some cases, for certain instances, words were not nearly as fun.

~ ~ ~ ~

Sleep was calm, full of simplicity and sunshine, the only harshness the ache in her shoulder as she rolled to her back and began to wake. Helena eased herself to the sheet as she rolled, but found that the pain was a little too insistent, and so she moved back to her side. Sadly, that meant that she was facing away from Myka, and to not see her at first light as eyes began to open made her feel like the other woman was simply _too_ far away. She opened her eyes with intention, and pushed herself up with that same intention. Myka was lying on her stomach, her own bare back showing that same harsh sensation.

Whiskey was a fun little adage. Lacing their moves with urgency and fire, they had raked fingernails down the backs of clothes the night before, then peeled them away and repeated the action, over and over, until the burn from their throats was searing their skin. Helena felt a sense of powerful regret as she looked down at the scratches she had left to Myka’s back. In the moment, it had been sublime. Now, it was simply more hurt that she had caused to the woman she... to Myka.

She leant down and pressed a delicate, wet kiss to the tips of such lines before swinging her legs out of bed and taking herself, bare and bloodied to the bathroom. Craning her neck to see her own pain, she worried that they would be as evident as those she had just kissed, but was ever so thankful to see that they were but reddened lines; no broken skin. She had not bled then, thank goodness, and such lines would fade almost entirely by that evening. Bloodied though she was, however, she washed her hands and cleaned under her nails, hating to wash Myka from her, but needing to before starting her day.

The sun was barely in the sky, and when Helena emerged from the bathroom, she saw Myka’s clock said that it was a little after seven. Standing by the foot of the bed, covers draped haphazardly across legs and tucked under her hip, Myka was beginning to rouse, and Helena felt the innocent inclination to simply watch. She watched as Myka’s back expanded with breath, and shifted unnaturally under her contracting stretches. She listened as waking breaths melted into grumbles against her pillow, and her name was uttered out from lips stuck together. She pressed a hand to her heart at it, and kept it there as Myka’s hand swept out across the sheet searchingly, just as she had two nights before.

Her name uttered again, with more question this time as she woke properly, her back curving as shoulders raised and elbows came to prop her up. “Good morning, my love,” Helena said, bending over the bed and running her hand up covered legs to an uncovered back. Myka turned her head at the touch and so Helena bent down further still to kiss her cheek before that face fell back into the pillow.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Helena asked, worried and pulling away; still bending down, almost kneeling now, but her lips far from Myka, as was her hand.

“Not being here when I wake up.”

“But I am here.”

“Not _here_ ,” Myka insisted, pushing herself over onto her side to vacate her warmed spot of the bed before patting the mattress. “I want to wake up with your arms around me and your body against me.”

“Move over a little more then,” Helena directed, before promptly standing and walking to the kitchen.

“Helena,” Myka whined, reaching out an almost limp arm in echo of where the other woman once was.

“Calm, darling,” Helena said from the kitchen, before she flicked the switch on the wireless, and twirled the dial until music flowed through the apartment. “Can you hear that?”

“Yes,” Myka answered, in that same disgruntled whine. Helena smiled and strode back to Myka, disgruntled though she was but still allowing her eyes to roam the woman’s naked body that stalked towards her.

Helena crawled in under covers to her side just enough for her cooled feet to be warmed and her sore back to be cooled. She invited arms to wrap around her, a nose to nuzzle in at her shoulder, and a body to press against her, pressing a kiss to the forehead that lay beside her on the same pillow. Myka snuggled in and picked up Helena’s far leg as best she could so that she could entwine hers underneath. “I wanted to listen to jazz as I held you.”

“Listen to love and hold onto it.”

“Exactly,” and as Myka had spoken words of holding, her fingertips ran along the open back of the love she was holding, feeling dry and etched beneath.

“How’s your back?” she asked.

“Sore,” Helena said. “But thank you for being kinder with me.”

“In case he wouldn’t,” Myka said, and Helena hated that in their private moments of passion, _he_ was still featured. That when it was them and only them, _he_ still impacted whatever they could be somehow.

“Thank you,” Helena said, which she also meant as, ‘I’m sorry.’

“You don’t have to apologise for him here,” Myka said, reading minds; learning from Leena in reading people. “I mean...”

“I know what you mean.”

“It is how it is, but it won’t be that way forever, so do not feel that you need to bandage wounds that will heal in time through openness,” Myka explained, and Helena thought the sentiment beautiful.

“You should write more,” for she knew that she read and occasionally wrote in inspiration, but it was different to write one’s own inspiration.

“Maybe when we get up,” Myka said, with a long overdue kiss to Helena’s skin.

“But for now, let us have jazz.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The hours that followed were sweet, in yet another kind of way. Helena’s back began to ache from its unnatural and stagnant bend into the mattress, and so she had to sit up. She stretched and bent herself this way and that in attempts to wriggle out the nerves that complained. Myka sat up behind her and pressed into muscles with the heels of her hands, the side of her palm, the flat length of her forearm. She let still hands rest against the fleshy curve of Helena’s waist, pressing a singular and finite kiss to the dip between shoulder blades. Then they both stood.

They made the bed together, getting distracted after tucking in the blanket to dance around the foot of the bed together. Tommy Dorsey demanded it of their tapping feet and destiny to hold each other again. When the song finished, so was the bed. Myka went to wash her face, and when she came back out she saw that Helena had turned some lights on. “Clouds,” was the explanation given to her without a question to prompt it, and so Myka dressed herself and pulled on her ankle boots and coat.

Helena was left to busy herself in Myka’s apartment, as if it was hers as well to tend to, to fill with warmth and good food, to live in and wait for her girlfriend’s return. The rain came in before Myka did, and her coat was dampened when she did. She had taken the flowers from the windowsill upstairs down to the store – a rotating of stock, as it were – and now she had a fresh bouquet from Hugo to liven up the lamp-lit apartment.

Helena was at the stove top, turning the pan around clockwise by the handle, as her spatula shimmied in and out of it in the other direction. “You buy so many eggs.” Another explanation without question to prompt, only a chin on her shoulder. “So, we are having an omelette.”

Myka smiled and stepped away, taking herself back to her wardrobe to dress more comfortably. She traded her slacks in for nothing, and her beige sweater over a too-constricting bra, to simply a sweater over her. As she stood and folded her clothes before placing them into their drawers or shelves in the wardrobe, a new tune played through the crisp speakers of her wireless. Helena turned it up, obviously fond of this one in particular. It was instrumental, a lot of brass and the swish and tap of percussion. _Glenn Miller_ , Myka smiled to herself, then twitched her nose. As much a mystery as Amelia Earhart. Her twitch faded, however, and her smile returned when such brass notes, the trombone of course, sounded the sways of Helena’s hips as she stood at the stove top. Myka closed her wardrobe doors and slowly made her way to the other woman who shimmied a little now when the music directed her to.

Standing soon at the edge of the table, she picked up a banana from her fruit bowl and ate it most entertained at the little show before her. She was mesmerised, and could feel it so in her eyes; wide and glistening, threatening to weep from her resistance to blinking. When the song finished, as was her banana, she clapped in appreciation and wonder at the talent before her. “Bravo, bravo,” she cooed. Helena laughed.

Breakfast was finished, the rain had set in, but the apartment was dry and toasty, Myka was slouching in her chair as she read Shakespeare, and Helena sat in hers with her leg tucked up underneath her as she completed a crossword puzzle from an old newspaper. Myka made her small notes in the book, looking up to the woman ahead of her every now and then with a soft smile. Finally, she said, “I love this.”

“Do you?” Helena asked, finishing her answer in the puzzle.

“Our Friday nights and Saturday mornings.”

“They’ve happened twice,” Helena noted with a small amused laugh.

“And I look forward to them happening an awful lot more,” Myka retorted.

“About that actually...” Helena began, placing her pencil down to the paper softly, silently. Myka mirrored her actions, placing pencil upon book on the table.

“What?”

“I have a...”

“An arrangement,” Myka said for her with as little snark in her voice as was possible, but it was also the only way she could say it at all.

“Next Friday evening. Except that it’s not an arrangement. It is actually business, but either way it means that I cannot take you out next Friday.”

“Well, you can always come over afterwards.”

“I’m afraid not, Myka. You see, after _business_ it is sort of an unspoken...”

“Arrangement?”

“To stay for... the arrangement.”

“You have a business meeting with MacPherson, and then you are to spend the night with him.”

“That is the arrangement,” Helena nodded.

“Too many uses of the word,” Myka tried to laugh off. “It becomes difficult to say.”

“More difficult to actually say what it is.” Silence befell them, and it was awkward again. After finally settling into a sense of normal natural, one utterance of _him_ made the air thick and hard to breathe between them. There needed to be something better, something else. “A compromise?” Helena offered. “I will therefore have the day to myself, so might I come by the store on Friday and annoy you until I have to leave.”

“Bring croissants on your way?” Myka asked, voice low and rounded like a saddened child.

“And if I don’t?

“I’ll grow hungry.”

“I’ll feed you some other way then,” Helena said calmly, coyly, and Myka’s face erupted in a cheeky blush. “I’ll buy croissants.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Friday came around slowly, but sharply, offset by the jutting in of Helena’s soft voice to ease the week on its way. Myka went to bed each evening exhausted, simply by her own thoughts. Wishing and wanting for someone could grow so draining of one’s energy, she discovered. She woke up and thought of Helena. She went down to work and thought of Helena. She looked at her door and waited for Helena to walk through it. She dropped her fork on the floor when eating lunch, and the clang of it doing so sounded like the first rings of the telephone, and she picked it up. She’d sigh as she locked her store in the afternoon, missing Helena. She’d bathe, eat, dress for bed, and wish that Helena’s hands were there to help her, even though she was capable. She simply wanted to have the other’s hands on her, with her. She’d fall asleep and if she was lucky, she would not dream of Helena and would therefore wake up feeling somewhat rested instead of wishing, wishing, wishing.

On occasion, Helena _would_ call during Myka’s lunch break, or just as she was about to leave the store, and the Englishwoman’s soft voice would filter through to settle in Myka’s heart. Pete would be there at times, remarking after she hung up that she was glowing. She’d smile. It was the little moments of her week that made the drawn out and deafeningly quiet days worthwhile. “I need Christmas to come,” she said to Helena on Thursday afternoon after Pete had left early and she was sitting in her dark and growing-cold store.

“May I ask why?” an equally tired voice hummed.

“These quiet days in the store are driving me insane. I will have maybe an hour a day of intense sales, and then a few minutes afterwards to shuffle books on the shelves or put more out, but other than that, I am sitting and reading, or sitting and wishing. And I’m not even near the fire.”

“What are you wishing of?”

“You.”

“Really?”

“Are you surprised?” Myka laughed, muffled and jagged in her weariness.

“I’ve been wishing of you too.”

“In what way?”

“In every way,” Helena said. “To hold your hand, to hear you read Shakespeare to me, to make breakfast with you that doesn’t involve eggs,” and they laughed together, so sleepily.

When Friday arrived, and Helena was at her store a little after she opened, before the fire had even taken hold fully, they were tired but so glad to see each other. Glad enough that it woke them up just enough to bring their bodies across the store to each other, meeting in a much-needed grasping embrace. “I missed you,” Helena whispered into the soft skin of Myka’s neck, brown paper bag full of croissants crinkling as it was clutched against the woman’s back. Myka hummed it in return, against the other woman’s neck for her hair was twisted up to the back of her head much like Myka’s was, yet somehow more elegantly.

Remembering that eyes were everywhere – a notion that did not follow Myka to her bed which she was glad to remember but also saddened to remember – she let Helena go and stepped back, making her way to her desk again. “How are you?” Casual. Normal. What was expected from two female friends, just in case those eyes came along with ears.

“Rather well, although that weather did chase me along at times,” Helena said in reference to the sudden changes between temporary sunshine and decidedly awful bursts of downpour that had plagued the week.

“You didn’t get too wet, did you?” and Helena shook her head, but decided to retire to the fire not long after, growing a little tired – as was Myka – of their painfully ordinary small talk. Myka apologised later on, but reasoned that she was trying so very hard to remain _normal_ , to not get so lost in the quiet and alone moments that she had had with the other woman that she made a grave error of judgement in thinking that she could bask in any that occurred now. Behind solid, locked doors only, she told herself. Not in the store, even down by the fire. That hug was all that could happen for the day.

“Maybe,” Helena suggested kindly before Myka left to return to her desk after her utterances of determination. “I shall stay a few minutes after you have closed the store, _locked_ the store, and by the dying light of the fire, I may kiss you goodbye.”

After long moments of thought, chewing on her lip and reaching up to weave her curls in her fingertips, only to remember that her hair was twisted at the back of her head, Myka uttered an equally determined, “maybe.”

She wanted to, she really could burn with how much she wanted to, but she needed to be her own voice in her head that she usually was for her friends; logic and reason so that she didn’t let her heart run away with itself.

Come lunch time, with her usual influx of customers doubling with every teenager that decided to stop in as well, thankful for Myka’s help with their study and intent on repaying her by means of paying her, Myka was almost run off her feet. As she had a line at her desk and people interrupting sales every few moments to ask questions, she felt that she was slowly growing unable to both help her customers, and help them politely.

Helena, down by the fire, stood at this stress becoming obvious, and offered her assistance to customers wanting to locate books, as if she were someone who actually worked at the bookstore. She did not, but much like the teenagers that flooded in knowing exactly on which shelf sat the book that they desired, she too had spent many an hour memorising shelf labels, if only simply because they were written gorgeously in Myka’s handwriting.

Together, the two women ran the store when its legs were tired and survived the rush. Myka received compliments on her new member of staff, and Helena received proud looks from Myka in relay. “I ought to offer you a job, Miss Wells,” the bookkeeper noted as she wrote facts and figures in her books, not looking up from her pages. If she had, she would have seen Helena’s beaming smile, her wistful expression of hope for the future, her future, _their_ future and simply that they really may have one.

When the clouds crept overheard more definitively, not daring to be broken through by any sunshine, the store grew empty again. Except for Myka and her second set of hands. Shelves looked bare, painfully so, and with the day growing colder and the streets outside even turning slow, Myka decided to tentatively close the store at half past three. She would unlock and open the door if a customer came by most insistently on buying something, but for the most part, she did not want to be disturbed if she could help it as she spent her time restocking her shelves.

She let Helena know of her plans and the other woman, reminiscent of their _maybe_ to kiss in a locked and darkened store, was quick to offer her assistance once again. And when Myka grabbed out her small and practically impractical step ladder so that she may reach the boxes stored atop some of her shelves, Helena offered assistance again to “steady Myka should she lose her balance.”

“Hips or lower legs, madame,” Myka ordered. “Nothing else cheeky.”

But to be anything but cheeky was not at all in Helena’s nature once she’d gotten the idea to be so, and so with hands on Myka’s hips as the taller woman ascended to the next step, and then the next, those hands slid torturingly down over her hips, the curve of her behind and the taught of her thigh against her tweed skirt, to wrap controllingly, certain, around a tense calf. She did not need that, Myka’s shudder seemed to say. She did not need her head to grow light and floaty whilst she was higher than ground level.

It was distracting, but both seemed to carry on as if it wasn’t happening, as if Helena’s supportive and steadying hands weren’t in fact burning and weakening the legs that they held, that they rubbed their thumbs slowly across. Myka’s thin stockings were even more useless than she had realised them to be. Cold be damned, she could feel Helena through their pitiful nylon defence. She managed to survive the temptation for so long; the temptation to push that box of books back into place, step down and enjoy hands travelling up, and to pin Helena to the shelves that would support their weight, their desires, leaving red lines and marks across backs but providing a perch whilst Myka’s hands roamed south instead this time.

But the eyes and ears. Well, she knew from behind a locked door, there would be no ears but their own, and so she could whimper when nails dragged up behind her knee gingerly, beg her relief of Helena that the Englishwoman may stop, but the eyes. The street outside was empty and dark, but there would always, could always be eyes and so the risk was not worth the loss. The price was too high.

She picked up that box that she had been tempted to replace, and after surviving the floatiness and its danger to her vision and concentration for going on a half dozen shelves, it finally got to her. As she jerked the box off, heavy with its hardbacks inside, straining her muscles – and how foolish of Helena it was, she felt, that she had never noticed Myka’s muscles before as much as she was now with them pushing the constraints of her short-sleeved blouse – the bookkeeper toppled backward and her foot completely missed the step. She came falling down, hardbacks everywhere and in her attempt to save both herself and the books, reaching out for the shelf as she twisted, Myka smacked her mouth on an antique wooden shelf.

The books were scattered, and pages were bent, and she quickly pushed herself up, ignoring the thick and warm liquid at her lip to reach for those books in frantic despair. “No,” she whined, lips still falling apart from each other. She grabbed one, then two, and closed them, stacked them, crawled to grab more and hold them to her chest apologetically, but then Helena was pushing at her shoulders so that she may stop and so that she may sit up and offer those lips for inspection.

“Myka, stop,” she heard through her whines to the books. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m what...” and she finally felt her lips stick together with deep red. She brought her fingertips up to her lip, the bottom now throbbing at being shaken with speech after its split. Eyes widened with worry as she looked to Helena, but the other woman’s face was neutral, her lips pursing to hush as her hands came to cup and direct Myka’s chin.

She tilted it this way and that, the bud of her thumb catching the running blood before delicately pinching that bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. Helena pulled the lip down slowly, which only made the split gush more, but instead she seemed to be inspecting what of Myka’s teeth she could see past the blood. “How do your teeth feel?”

“Alright,” Myka answered, much like a ventriloquist she felt, unable to move her bottom lip to enunciate.

“Not loose?”

“No.”

“Good. Now, let me fetch you a tissue.” Helena pushed herself up and walked slowly to the table, shaking her ankles about when she stood over the piece of furniture, her feet obviously having been numb from when she had been sitting. As the woman stood by the wall, the clock directly overhead, Myka saw what the time was and her stomach sunk.

“You need to leave,” she said, and Helena shook her head defiantly as she returned to sit with the wounded woman. “You said that you needed to leave at four or else you would be late to your meeting, and it is after four.”

“I am tending to your wound,” Helena said, as if _he_ would understand that.

“Helena, I do not want him to be angry with you because of me. Go,” and Myka supposed that if it wasn’t for how blubbery her words sounded when lips stuck together with blood, or attempted to stay away altogether, her argument would have been more solid, and Helena would have left then and there. Alas, there was blubbering and blood, dripping down her chin now as she got flustered and worried, falling to the white of her blouse.

“Myka, stop talking.”

“No.”

“Yes. Do not make me make you.”

“And how would you make me?” Myka wondered as her chin was tilted up again and a firm urge of tissue was pressed to her lip and chin.

“Well,” Helena began, the tease of a smirk at the corners of her mouth. Myka knew. “Usually I would simply kiss you, I believe, and whilst your current shade of lipstick is simply to die for, I think it looks better on you alone.” Myka laughed as best she could, smiling until the strain on her lip proved sharp and painful, and she let it fall, _made_ her smile fall, and her brows furrowed in regret as well.

As much as Myka continued to implore Helena to leave over the next half hour, insisting that she would be fine and could take care of herself, Helena would not leave. She helped her pack up the books, boxing them and carrying them herself back up the step ladder with severely un-cheeky hands on her legs for support. She helped to shut down the remainder of the store; put the fire out, turn off the lamps, lock the door and unlock the bottle-green door, with a terribly risky and pricy kiss of understanding to Myka’s cheek as she huddled in closer, the early evening wind seeming to slice open her wound even more.

She bagged up some ice from Myka’s icebox, helped her get comfortable on the couch with Shakespeare and a blanket, and kissed her weary head, cheek, forehead, nose, corner of her mouth over a dozen times before she eventually left at the sound of the silver Rolls Royce downstairs.

Helena raced across town and rifled through her wardrobe for a dress that would do well for her business meeting and well for her survival of – what she was to no doubt endure – Nathaniel MacPherson’s anger at her tardiness. When she was content with what she was wearing, and what the fate of her evening may be, apologising to her own bouquet of lilies by her bed, she left.

Helena strolled into the office, an accentuated sway in her hips that threatened to almost throw her hip out, and a bounce in her bosom – the dress she wore dictated that she wear no bra – that she hoped would be just distracting enough, to both the men investing in Nathaniel MacPherson, and MacPherson himself. In distracting the men, she would be covering her partner in business and other arrangements’ severe lack of charm. In distracting Nathaniel, she would be hopefully saving herself from any anger he felt, anger that he was saving for later to act upon.

She pulled out her own chair and sat down coolly, slouching comfortably, confidently in the seat with her arm bent and hooked over the backrest. These men were loud, but weak, Nathaniel had told her, hence her decision to sit in such a way. To show that she was dominant, capable, in control leering over to the men with a smirk was to make them believe that she was able to keep their funds in great care. She was predator to prey, criminal to money, woman to plan, focussing on only what she wanted, and what she wanted immediately was to seal the deal so that she may save her plan, and Myka as well.

She did not care for herself, only her future and her love, so she had to do her best. As she had dressed for the meeting, after all, she had many a dress that she could wear a brassiere underneath, but none of those were going to seal the deal as surely.

The men, investors quaking in their suits as they sat tensed and teased in their seats, were seeing the confidence of two minds becoming one as the conversation continued. For above the tablecloth, deep and as red as the blood that was no doubt stained into the floorboards under copious amounts of rugs, Helena and Nathaniel looked the perfect pair, the most sure pair of people in Chicago, in all the world. They were asking for money so that they might expand, take on new projects, impress even more buyers and have them buy in time, and their smirks and deft gazes to each other with a sure and hungry lick of their lips said everything that the men needed to hear. Helena’s arms were draped cockily, while one of Nathaniel’s rested across the table, turning the chilled glass of scotch with his fingers.

Below the tablecloth however, beneath the table that sat on a rug that covered blood-stained floorboards, her partner’s hand had a deathly grip on Helena’s thigh, bruising and showing that anger that she had hoped to distract from was still very much there. She bruised, but stayed calm, already splitting her mind to the conversation she was in at that moment, and the one she would be having later on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this guy so heckin much, y'know, but at least he's got brains enough to need Helena and KNOW that he needs her too. But just because he needs her now... well, men with his kind of power may need a person, but they can always find another blank canvas of a person and turn them into who he wants as well. While Helena may not be expendable, what she does is, and he could easily find another pair of legs like hers to beguile while he connives. But like I said before the chapter, this is only the middle, and a happy ending is still a hopeful thing.


	17. SEVENTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the shit hits the fan. But believe you me, if either woman could throw shit into a fan as a distraction to somehow get out of what was coming their way, they would. Both were ladies however, and would use their brains and love to win the battle and the war...

“Where were you?”

_Where was I?_ Helena froze as she worked her way out of her coat, now in the small apartment above MacPherson’s club. The fur of her collar hooked at her bent elbows as her fingers played nervously against the hem of her sleeves. _Where was I?_ “I’m sorry, Nathaniel,” was all she could say.

“That’s not what I asked,” he said in response and she could hear him toss his own coat over the foot of the bed. It was a precise and near drop; he was in control of his anger, but she could hear anger just the same. “We have an agreement, Helena, as I _know_ that you do. We have rules, as you like to call them, and I adhere to them in the intention that we do not ruin what a good thing we have going. But,” and she still hadn’t looked up. She had taken her coat off and placed it across the back of a chair that she doubted had ever been sat in. He breathed in sharply, an attempt at remaining calm after the storm. “I find now that we are in a situation where your rules do not apply. I do not care whom you see, what places you visit, what friends you make, nor what hours you keep, but when any of those things impact me or our agreement, then I am forced to wonder if such things need to be removed, for they are causing an undesirable effect.”

The rules: Nathaniel MacPherson would not ask, and would not know of any part of Helena’s life beyond what took place in his immediate presence, and she would arrive to any meeting, appointment, dinner, evening drinks or even midday drinks that was requested of her. She would turn up and do her job, and he would let her do whatever else she liked as long as that job was done well. She turned to him and looked at his hunched and tired, yet boiling figure as it paced slightly.

“Nathaniel, I-“

“And so, you can now see that I worry, Helena...” his tone had hardened, and it made her clench her jaw. “For I have never had to doubt you before in any way, but now... now there if an effect and I do not like it. I had no doubt that this evening,” he said as he began his pacing towards her. “That once you sat in that chair, you would be able to charm and beguile those men as well as you ever had, but I did doubt _when_ exactly you would sit in that chair.”

“I’m sorry, Nathaniel.”

“I have heard your apology,” he simply said with a powering shake of his head as he clasped his hands in front of him, head craning down to her just enough to be condescending. “And so I ask again, where were you?”

_Myka... save Myka..._ She took a breath and it was all the time she was allowing herself to think of an answer, because any longer would come off as delaying time to lie. “Across town.”

“Ah,” he said, as if that was a satisfactory answer. Helena knew it wasn’t, and prepared herself for the simmering rage to continue. “But you are a smart woman, Helena,” and she also knew that she didn’t like how often her name was being used, as if she wasn’t the only other person in the room; of course when he spoke he was speaking to her. She deduced that he repeated her name as if he were talking to a child with a fluctuating attention span. “I know that you would have planned ahead of time the right amount of time it would take for you to return to _this_ side of town. In fact, I don’t care if you were across town, or in Utah, or anywhere else in the world, because I _know_ that you are smart enough to have planned to make it back in time. So, perhaps instead of asking where you were, I should ask, what kept you?”

She breathed in again, but held it this time, deciding that instead of speaking at all, whether truth or lie, she would stay silent instead. She knew that he would prefer that anyway to any partially true answer.

“Were you at the museum? Distracted by such decadent art that you found yourself unable to look at a clock and see the time passing?”

“No,” she bit out with a cold breath.

“The park?”

“No.”

“Was it a place then, I wonder, or something else... who were you with?”

“I will not tell you,” she said defiantly, although in her nerve she was sure he saw it only as playing at defiance.

“You don’t have to,” he said as if being reasonable. “All that I ask is that you don’t see him anymore, alright? Then he won’t cause distracted.”

“She told-“

“ _She?”_ and Helena bit her lip in regret, slowly hard enough to bleed. “Oh, that is interesting.” She ignored his smug, imaginative expression and continued.

“She told me to leave, over and over, but I refused. It is not her fault. It is solely mine, so please do not punish her, threaten her, or anything else. It is my fault entirely.”

“Your fault?” he asked. She nodded, looking up from his unclasping hands to his eyes. He mirrored her nod, but with no more condescending care in his expression. Then, his hand came across her face and her look upon him was removed. Her neck craned as it pivoted under the force, her cheek burning a second later once she was frozen again, her eyes closed and his breathing the only sign in the room that he was still there, standing over her and letting that anger show.

With others, with men or staff, Nathaniel MacPherson’s anger and frustration was loud and brutal, but with Helena whom he knew was irreplaceable to his own plan, he was silent and methodical. Except now that her face was burning and soon to be red in his hand, she knew that that irreplaceability had tipped over into being expendable if need be. And she needed not to be.

“It won’t happen again,” she said, playing the part of string wound around his finger. “I do not want to jeopardise our plan.”

He cleared his throat at this, and his breathing eased; less of a whistle now through flared nostrils, but a whisper. “Our plan,” and she nodded confidently and slowly at him, playing the part of string-winder around her own finger. “It had better not,” he said firmly. “Leave.” Helena’s eyes flickered around the room nervously, not sure as to what all entailed this direction of her. “I do not want to see you until Monday, so leave. Go and be with _her_ ,” and she beseeched her brows not to frown; he did not get to use inclination on Myka. Inclination of disgust was for him, to be used _of_ him _with_ Myka. “But when I expect to see you in that chair come nine o’clock Monday morning, I hope that it will be filled in time.”

“There will be no doubt,” she said.

“Good. Leave.”

Helena picked up her coat and did not even pull it on before leaving, needing to vacate the room as soon as she possibly could and to free her eyes of his figure, shapeshifting between anger and calm, a storm and the tranquillity of a deserted beach that it could soon wreak havoc on. He had become unpredictable, and so she needed to predict that she would survive the night, and to do so was met by means of leaving and taking herself somewhere safe.

She walked into the bar of MacPherson’s club as her coat came back over her shoulders, and saw that Artie was at the bar with an elixir in hand. She walked up behind him slowly and slid her hands over his shoulders. He turned slowly to meet her with a wave of serene content on his face, but that slowly changed. “H.G, what happened?”

“He was angry.”

“You don’t say.”

“No, he was angry,” she said, and turned her cheek this time, just enough for the light over the bar to catch the glow of her cheek, not yet distinguishable as a hand print. Artie did not say a word, only bringing a hand to her bent elbow as hands turned over, lost, on his shoulders. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not that much,” he said and silently read Helena’s face for what her mind requested, and so he picked up his coat beside him. Once in his car, the silver Rolls Royce parked across the road and down a way from the club, he asked, “to Miss Bering’s?”

“The Warehouse, if you please. I need some ice.”

“I see.”

“I do not want Myka to see me like this.”

“Helena...”

“Don’t call me that.”

“H.G,” Artie corrected, looking at her in his rear-view mirror. “Does he know?”

“Only that she exists. Not who she is.” She paused, and bit at the inside of her lip, looking out the window at the trodden and muddied snow of the sidewalk. “Not yet.”

~ ~ ~ ~

A knock at Myka’s door, slow and with a beat in between them so that it was almost hardly a knock at all, startled her awake just before midnight. She had expected a dull evening, complete with dull throb in her lip, and so had retired to bed not long after dinner and let her body drag her off to sleep. A distant and unachievable task, it seemed, with her mind floating somewhere between wanting to dream and wanting a reason to wake. At the sound of equally dull knocks at her door, that reason seemed to have come, and her eyes fluttered open in the lamp light of her room. Shakespeare lay across her stomach and her lip didn’t hurt.

She sat up quickly as the last of those knocks sounded – there must have been ten, tiresome and apologetic – and felt the blood flood to her lip, beating again in her woken pulse. She let out an airy groan and closed her eyes, regretting almost everything in her life at that stab of pain, but moved forward just the same. Her feet did not like the cold of the floor, even through socks, nor how the steps she traced felt similar to how they had moved around the apartment when it was Pete thumping at her door.

These knocks were not Pete, she knew. They were less intense, more demanding but of softness and understanding. She worried that she would be proved correct when she looked out her window, but Myka knew that it was going to be Helena bathed in street light down below. When she saw that it was, her heart sank with worry – _why are you here? I’m glad that you are, but why did he let you leave, or make you leave?_ – and she let her cold feet carry her downstairs.

Helena sat on the foot of her bed soon enough, nothing much said between them other than, “we had a fight,” and, “it was best for all that I left when I did.” Myka did not ask anything more of her, to which they were both grateful, because then no lies had to be said, or more accurately, no truth had to be omitted. Helena shielded her face from Myka as best she could for as long as she could, but this woman in her socked feet with worrying hands was not one to accept only half of her face in conversation. She wanted to see all of Helena and hear all that she had to say, tend to her heart and her tears. She turned, and the lamp caught the red of her cheek.

Myka stepped forward and bent down, pressing a tender kiss to the wounded cheek; warm lips to soothe a burning slap. “Would you like me to run you a bath?”

“That would be lovely, please,” and as Myka was not one to indulge in nice hot baths very often, she was more than happy to spend her excess hot water for the month on loving Helena, being soft with and for Helena, and helping the other woman be softened and loved in return. She let her be for a while, so that the Englishwoman could comfort herself in a safe space, but returned with just as much calm in her voice and movements as she had since Helena arrived. A little different to the firm directions given to her earlier in the day when her lip was being tended to, but effective nonetheless.

“How’s the water?”

“Growing cooler, but not anything but nice and warm yet,” Helena answered. Myka sat herself down beside the bathtub gingerly, her hands cupped together as she held some mysterious object, using her forearms to help her down. When she was seated, she smiled softly at Helena before reaching over the tub and opening her hands, releasing petals upon petals from the roses that sat on Myka’s windowsill.

They settled and floated along by the ripples of the water, bouncing up against Helena’s bent knees and chest. She brought her hands up from beneath, rising them into the cool air and up to her lips to kiss. Their edges were curling, browning a little and Helena knew that Myka would not have sacrificed fresh and healthy petals for soothing recovery, not even for Helena. If she had, she would have debated long with herself. The thought made her smile and close her eyes to bask in.

“What?” Myka whispered, and Helena opened her eyes to see the other woman resting her chin on folded arms against the rim of the bath.

“Your flowers were on their way out?”

Myka paused, twitching her nose, before answering, “yes.”

“I’m glad that you didn’t pluck lively petals to scatter for me.”

“I would for you,” Myka said matter-of-factly.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Helena countered knowingly.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Myka admitted with a smirk.

When the water began to grow too cold to sit comfortably in, accentuated by the cool of the dead of night, Myka helped Helena out and wrapped her in a towel, holding her dampness close to her body to warm and dry. She rested her chin atop Helena’s dry head as her slightly shivering body huddled into her. Quietly, with only the humming of various jazz songs the theme to their movements, they had a cup of tea to warm up and soon – finally – made their way to bed.

The lamps were off, the street light and moon glowed outside and through the window, and they were in each other’s arms. Helena was protected from behind by the other pillow, and pressed up to Myka, sharing hers in front. She was in safe arms, a safe apartment, and while her cheek still hurt, she felt that it would heal safely where she was. She was safe. The thought was suddenly euphoric and she sighed deeply, contentedly.

“Okay?” Myka asked.

“Much more than that,” Helena whispered, tilting her head up just enough to nudge Myka’s chin with her nose. Myka shifted her head in return, down to bring their lips against each other. A soft kiss at first, barely there, but definitely, surely there. Another kiss and it was indicative of something more, wanting more, wanting to give more, and feeling that despite weary bodies, sleep could wait. Helena parted her lips as they moved against each other, her hands pressing into the other woman’s waist and back with the depth that she intended to show in her kiss, but then Myka moaned and it turned into a groan.

“Your lip darling,” Helena noted. “I do not wish to hurt you...” more.

“You’re worth the pain,” Myka insisted, pressing firmly into the kiss so hard that she can feel the blood throb at the split skin.

“I do hope you are referring to more than just your cut,” Helena prompted and Myka nodded against her skin. “I have already caused you so much pain.” Helena was no fool to believe that she did not cause Myka confusion and a stab of betrayal by keeping secrets from her, even if she had intended for that to be so that she may stay safe.

“I have hurt you too,” Myka mumbled, lips tender against each other. “I acted coldly without daring to listen to reason.”

“But it was my responsibility to have you aware of that reason. I never fought hard enough to help you understand.” Helena furrowed her brows against the warmth of Myka’s forehead, nuzzling forward until her head slipped down to Myka’s neck again. “I should never have kept things from you, my love.”

At that term of endearment used again, as it had many a time most naturally before, Myka suddenly and differently felt flooded; flooded in pain, grief of lost time, and frustration at their collective stubbornness, but most of all flooded with her own love.

“I love you,” she whispered, continuing before Helena could even breathe in the taste of those words. “We both hurt each other, perhaps not in equal measure, but we did nonetheless.”

“We did,” Helena mumbled, bringing herself back up to look upon Myka’s tear glistened eyes, her hand caressing a warm cheek and teasing the split on that lip. She leaned in to kiss it, and only it, a gesture to somehow heal the wounds within Myka as well as on her.

“We need to, if you want this like I do...”

“I want this,” Helena said, while her mind wiped her mental chess board clean, beginning again. “I want you.”

“I want you too, so we need to be together in this. We need to be honest with each other,” and while Helena nodded, Myka knew that it was a mask; she had no idea how but supposed she had learnt more from Steve than simply how to brew a good cup of coffee. “And if a secret is needing to be kept, then we need to accept that and listen earnestly when it is divulged. No running.”

“You have a secret, do you?” Helena asked, wondering intently and a little cheekily.

“No,” Myka said plainly, looking up into dark eyes; eyes that held secrets and love swirled into one. “But I know that you do. And I will not push to know them, but I need you to know that I accept them.”

“You do?”

“I may be a fool, but I’m a fool that loves you.”

“Then I am a fool too,” Helena blushed.

“Then we are perfect for each other,” Myka mused, smiling and wrapping her arms tighter around the other woman, pulling her in to kiss.

“Meant to be,” Helena mumbled against reddened and sore lips, promising herself to be gentle.

~ ~ ~ ~

With the light breaking in through the window, reflecting across the apartment to the clean polish of wood furniture, white appliances, picking up the ochre glow of threading in her rugs, Myka awoke. She was facing away from the source of the light, instead to the warmth of her home, an equal deep warmth at her back. She wriggled into it a little, curving her back into the spine of someone else, and enjoying how after she relaxed, she was met with the same pressure.

She smiled and opened her eyes slowly, taking in the glow and feeling it from behind. Telling herself to go gently, quelling the excitement buzzing in her belly to simply flip herself over, she turned under the covers and found Helena there, beside her, still asleep. Oh, how it felt so sweet and safe to be able to lay her body back down into the mattress again, curling around the other woman and breathing her in as she woke up. Her mind settled into a calm, as did her limbs and practically everything else about her – except the tight strain of her beaming smile, tempting the fresh dry of her lip cut to split – and she found herself feeling homely.

This was what she had wanted; her dreams and lonely moments wondering where her life might reside one day, had all lead to that homely feeling under the warmth of covers and kisses, regardless of if she were receiving or giving them. As she relaxed her lips, changing to a pucker, Myka pressed a kiss to Helena’s shoulder with an airy groan. _I don’t like this cut_ , she thought to herself, not that she liked any cut that had appeared on her body before it, but ever so because this one impeded on her smiling and kissing abilities. _Not at all_ , her brain whispered again as she changed to an endearing nuzzle instead, for a nuzzle did not need her lips at all.

Her dreams had once been of Sam, of even a dog or cat to own by herself; a simple something or someone to add heated weight to her bed and for her to dote upon. Since Sam, she had not dreamt of much on any larger scale, only smaller things, or far away things. Since Sam, she had not done many a thing, in limbo of herself and where her heart was, or what was left of it. Since Sam...

But now, with love forever and always for the man, her heart had healed and learnt to love itself when she was weak. Now, she had Helena, and Pete and other friends and smiles to bask in, and no matter what sat between them, trying to masquerade themselves as obstacles, she knew now with her arms around the woman she loved, that they were only steps to something better; to a better her. Now, she had found a more resilient and rare love in her life than she ever thought herself or anyone else truly lucky enough to find: herself.

She hummed, content with everything that could possibly be in her life at that moment. A unique feeling. She liked it.

Helena shifted in her embrace a little, turning her head to face the ceiling with closed eyes, a small frown, reddened lips begging to be kissed as she mumbled at Myka’s embrace. “Morning,” Myka said.

“Morning,” was the mumbled response, before the hot body in Myka’s embrace rolled around further, bringing their faces closer, their lips together. It was delicate, and Myka could barely feel the throb in her lip, only the satisfied hum against them. “How is your lip?”

“Not as sore as I had expected. Feels better after kisses,” she said, smiling softly into the pecks offered to her.

A moment later, when they were both awake enough to look about the room and at each other as they spoke of things, the weather, whether Helena preferred nylon or silk stockings and if she was in need of any new ones – “do not buy me stockings, Myka,” she had said adamantly. “Buy me flowers instead. Maybe a candle or two...” – and finally, what they might like for breakfast that morning. Of course, Myka had enough eggs for an omelette, or on toast, but Helena only rolled her eyes and groaned in torture at the idea. “For heaven’s sake, Miss Bering. I challenge you to go a week without eggs, for your own good if not only mine!” Myka laughed, but supposed she could go without, without having to not buy.

“Shall I take you someplace for breakfast this morn, then?”

“Why, Miss Bering-“

“Stop,” she laughed again.

“Why, my darling Myka, are you asking me on a date?”

“Why, my equally darling Miss Wells,” for she could play that game too, and _twice_ as well. “I do believe I am.”

The pair of them blushed into each other, and then away to the open air, needing the cool on their flushed cheeks a moment later. “New flowers and breakfast,” Helena stated, the veritable plan for their day.

At the mention of flowers, and breakfast although she knew that it would most likely be brunch, Myka pressed a firm and wonting kiss to Helena’s cheek before pushing up against the covers, creating space for her to roll out. Just as she was to retreat to her side of the bed, she thought better of it, an idea better than it, and flung the covers off completely. She bared Helena’s body to the cool morning air, and pushed herself up to straddle temporarily and then, essentially, dismount herself to the other side of the bed, nearer the window.

She smiled back to the other woman, a glowing expression of wonder on her face, before bringing her warmed hands to the cool of her vase, perched on the windowsill. The roses would not last much longer and that worked well for Myka just as it had the night before, choosing a wilting one to play daringly with, scattering the petals onto Helena’s bath. Now, she would scatter simply onto Helena herself. She picked out a lone rose, and although the outer petals were drying with a crisp, the inner ones were most certainly still velvety.

She held it above the vase for a moment, allowing the drops of water to subside, before she turned and carried it to Helena.

“For me?” the Englishwoman mused.

“All for you,” Myka whispered in return, bending down to kiss Helena’s lips. In an instant, she followed her kiss up with the cold touch of the flower, chilled petals leaving a wake on pearly skin, nipples growing hard and back arching. “Which is softer?” Myka wondered, her rogue curls forming a curtain around her face and Helena’s, leaving the drag and subsequent sensations of the rose to the imagination. “More kind and deft...” another kiss. “More pleasurable to the touch...” another, and the head of the rose met the dip and valley of thighs pressing firmly together.

“Myka,” came a whisper, a plea for more, and it was all she needed for the torture and teasing, the beckoning and denying of to grow and temper in Helena’s body, wracked with sensations and temperatures. She sat up, pressed herself up and strained muscles to kneel with one knee on the mattress, the other bending almost impossibly beside the bed, knee locked. With her naked body curving and standing tall in sunshine over her naked lover, Myka felt a flash of power she had never known before.

She felt, dare she say it let alone think it, sexually powerful, and the thought was intoxicating.

She began plucking petals off the rose – now extracted completely from Helena’s body; not a thing touched her but her own hand, tracing lightly over her skin where a rose and Myka’s lips had once been – with such intense precision that she feared for each that it would rip clean in half, instead of coming free from the base.

Originally, the urge had been to practically carry each petal down to Helena’s body, aided by the lift of the air as it whistled between her fingers, but with that power coursing through her veins, and the other woman’s beseeching, bending body beckoning from below, she tossed them, one by one. She tossed them, and they each came down to land on Helena’s naked body; washed out pinks and yellows settling down like snowflakes to the blinding white of snowy skin.

Too soon, her hands were empty, and so with as much cheek as Helena showed in grabbing at Myka’s arms with intention to pull closer, she pinched and tickled away and obtrusive limbs so that her hands may grow full again of those summery colours. She repeated the sequence again and again, each time more liberating in power and love than the last, until they began to blend into each other, almost as if in slow motion.

Like a dream.

~ ~ ~ ~

Sunday morning rose, and with Helena jostling from her dreams and the subtle tightening of arms around her, there was terror. Somehow, her mind and body had conditioned her to know that Sunday mornings followed Saturday nights, and Saturday nights were for her arrangements with Nathaniel MacPherson. Therefore, her body told her that arms around her the next morning were a reason to be frightened; a weight on the other side of the bed was cause to be alarmed, and to want to escape.

She breathed in deeply, yet without much movement in her chest, so as to not wake the body those entwining arms belonged to. But those arms... Helena’s were against them and in her sleep had held them closer. She felt them now and they were slimmer, smoother, kinder in that embrace than any other arms had been, than _his_ had ever been. Eyes opened just enough to look down, and she smiled in relief, her chest caving with the exhale.

The remainder of the weekend sunk back into what bliss had already preceded it.

Myka prepared an otherwise ordinary breakfast for the two of them, what she would usually have for her own weekday breakfasts. A bowl of cereal and a cup of tea, and when the morning dragged on and another cup was poured, then both women had a slice of toast as well, Helena daring to be romantic and feed Myka hers as she flicked through the newspaper.

Around lunch, Myka excused herself to head downstairs for her usual phone call to sister Tracy, and Helena remained upstairs to read the paper herself. She was engrossed entirely until she heard the opening of the bottle-green door downstairs, and lifted her head up bringing a hand with it to rub at the nape of her neck, sore from being so craned over the paper.

A smile grew upon her face with the resounding agreeance of a rumble from her stomach when she saw that Myka carried brown paper bags of food with her. Croissants from further up the street, and some rich vegetable stew from Leena, no drinks at all for they would be happy with another cup of tea or two.

The stuff of dreams, Myka thought, as they completed a crossword together, and she heard in the back of her mind Tracy’s squeal of delight at her admission that there may be a _special someone_ in her life. They washed up together and Helena helped clean the store, learning her way about it more comfortably yet again. She liked that she knew exactly what shelf to look at when Myka requested a book of her. She liked that she knew exactly what Myka’s handwriting looked like from looking upon all of those shelf labels, despite never receiving any personal letter from the woman.

“Write me some time,” she said casually as Myka opened her wardrobe mid-afternoon. She was to dress for her dinner with Pete and Amanda, walking herself there rugged up in even a beanie she supposed this week.

“While I am in Colorado Springs?” she asked.

“Whenever,” Helena answered. “I’d love to see your handwriting outside the limits of bookshelf labels. I want to see your writing talk to me. Say my name. Tell me things.”

“Alright,” Myka said with a blushed grin. She bit her lip softly as she turned back to the wardrobe, deciding on one of her longer skirts, tweed of course, and her deep blue sweater to wear over a long blouse and under an even longer coat.

Dinner with friends may have been altogether forgotten by both women, or simply forgone, for through those excessive layers of warmth, the challenge persisted to touch skin and mark bodies inside the closed bottle-green door at the bottom of stairs. A simple peck of a kiss goodbye turned into grasping and languid kisses, nips at lips and demanding hands pushing aside and underneath clothes. Only when the practically annoyed honk of the horn from the silver Rolls Royce sounded, repeatedly, did they let each other go.

Helena smoothed her thumb over Myka’s pinkened lips, a last touch with a sorry sigh, before she smiled into a laugh of weakness and opened the door. She hopped in the car and thanked Artie, looking over the back of the headrest to the woman walking down the street until they turned a corner, and she was forced to turn around to the sceptical frown from her driver in the rear-view mirror. “Hush, Arthur,” she said. “You have known love, have you not?”

“I did not have to be so careful,” he warned.

“Then where is she?” Helena stabbed.

“Point taken.”

Myka arrived at Pete and Amanda’s to see that they were equally as oversized by layers of clothing as she. Pete said that they were going to the tavern for dinner, and so she paused her removal of her scarf to wind it back on and turn around. It was noisy, and beer was flowing a little too much for Myka’s liking, especially as her best friend seemed to stare at each pint that passed with a mix of pain and love in his eyes.

“You’re just hungry,” Amanda nudged him, and once their food had arrived, he was sure that she was right for he barely had eyes for anything but the food on his plate... until that food was gone, and his eyes shifted to the food still on Myka’s.

Later on, and enjoying the evening too much to leave after eating, Myka used the bar’s phone to call Steve and Leena, and then Claudia as well to invite them for a drink or two. Claudia declined, having movie night with her brother, but the other two arrived in less than half an hour. More beer flowed, but Pete was too busy laughing this time to notice it, as was everyone.

A good time had by all, but soon the tavern was emptying for many a customer was to head off to work the next day, but not Myka. And not Pete. But Leena and Steve did, and so Myka took their cab as well to their side of town. They were dropped on the other side of the street and so Leena slipped upstairs to warm up their apartment, whilst Steve walked Myka across to her own, ever the chivalrous kind.

They were still laughing a little from some joke or another, but when Myka stepped up from icy road to her sidewalk, an alien and disturbing crunch underfoot, the laughter ceased. Snow did not crunch like that. She looked up and in the street lamp light, Myka saw it. She saw it and her heart sunk, her world crumbling around her only accentuated by the various alcohols in her body. Leena was soon there, running across the street saying, “I only saw it once I’d gotten upstairs. I couldn’t see it from down here, but I did up there. Oh, Myka...”

And oh, Myka felt the pain in Leena’s words like she felt her own.

Her store window was smashed, the door kicked in, in the minimum lighting she could see far enough into the store where books had been knocked off their shelves, her window display completely overturned.

“Who would do such a thing?” Steve asked as his arm came to wrap around Myka’s shaking shoulders.

She could not be sure, and she knew that after a phone call Helena would not be sure either, but both would have an idea. Both would have a tragic and ripping idea of who would so easily destroy Myka’s livelihood as they had attempted to destroy her lover’s face with the slap of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, you may hate me, and oh are you going to hate me next chapter too, but just keep whispering to yourselves.... "happy ending, happy ending, happy ending..." I don't believe in writing a love story that doesn't have a happy ending because we read to escape, to find happiness. And so you will find yours in theirs... but first... hell.


	18. EIGHTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From worse to only worse still. Hitting rock bottom before scraping to get better is what these lives seemed to always play out like, so it did not disappoint (although it very wells does) for it to continue in much the same fashion.

Myka had been quietly composed when she picked up her telephone to call Pete. Her eyes had raked over every inch of her store with Steve and Leena following her with kind hands and concerned expressions. Steve soon returned to the front of the store, waiting for the police to arrive, and all were glad – mostly Myka – when the officer sent to her was Amanda’s father. He offered her a hug, despite only meeting her a handful of times, but nonetheless, she needed it and appreciated the extra support.

Nothing had been stolen, nothing seriously broken – beside the window and door – and nothing done to her bottle-green door at all. It was but the store that was attacked, and not her home, although she would argue that every book in that store was her home; the store was her extended living room. As Officer Clark and his team searched the store for clues, Myka’s safest space intruded by bright lights and strangers who perhaps had never heard of Mary Shelley, she sat at her desk and called Pete.

She was composed, and then he asked if she was alright; calling so late was not a very Myka thing to do. She wept and whispered, not wanting anyone, despite Steve and Leena’s eyes on her from across the room, to hear her break. “The store has been vandalised.” When he arrived with Amanda at his side barely ten minutes later, the three of them huddled together in a comforting embrace, before Steve and Leena followed suit and Myka was shielded from light and voices and the world for a few seconds. All her ears registered were her family’s breathing around her and hands on her back and neck, Amanda’s temple pressing at hers.

“You’re safe,” she heard from Pete, towering overhead the huddle. He repeated it and she felt a hand rub and squeeze at her shoulder, its fingers fine and strong; Leena. When they broke apart, Pete let Myka burrow into him, hooking her safely under his arm, a veritable baby bird into his wing, and they looked about the mess.

Nothing else could be done for the night, and the store could be looted if not watched, and so the police left ever so helpfully, leaving Myka to sit in a pile of rubble and blankets for the night. Money was moved upstairs, and Amanda went home, as did Steve and Leena, but Pete stayed under the blankets with her. It was freezing within minutes and no amount of blankets could save them, so they had to head upstairs. Myka cried and Pete went downstairs again, “just to double check everything,” he said, but he called Helena.

It was odd for Helena to hear his voice in her ear, but when he said what he had to – that the store was broken into, that Myka was shaking even after getting warm and he didn’t know what else to do but hold her – she called Artie with apologies and he came around in his pyjamas to drive her. She would buy him a new tie in the morning, she said to herself. He owned a lot of new ties of late. Soon, Myka was shaking less, but she had Helena on one side of her and Pete on the other, their arms wrapped around her.

When Pete’s soothing hand moved from Myka’s shoulder to Helena’s that was pressed against it, she felt like weeping as well, but simply let her head fall to rest against the other woman’s. Myka was safe, and now she was as well, accepted in her position as Myka’s girl.

_Myka’s girl,_ she thought, and suddenly no other phrase that had filtered through her brain had ever meant so much, been worth so much, and held so much importance to who she was and what she could do. She could be Myka’s girl and love her for the rest of her days, and that seemed like the most perfect and idyllic idea she had ever imagined.

“Do they know who did this?” Myka mumbled to Pete, for he and Amanda had been talking to Amanda’s father before he left. Helena was dragged back to reality.

“No,” he said.

Myka turned her head and Helena lifted hers until their eyes met. They both had an idea.

When daylight came, Pete had left, and Helena had to as well. None had slept. Myka went down to the store and Steve was already there with coffee and food. Leena would run the cafe for the day as best she could while Steve helped clean and clear. Pete and Amanda returned just after eight, and so did Claudia. The young woman had decided to swing by the store that morning regardless, intent to see Myka and apologise for declining the invite to join them the night before, and then maybe, _maybe_ , to pop over to see Leena as well.

When she approached the store and saw glistening glass in melting and glistening snow, her mouth fell agape, staying that way until she ever so kindly walked through the newly repaired front door. “What in the name of someone important happened here?” she asked, before her foot came down with a crunch to glass still scattered.

Too tired to be giving answers that were honest, Myka simply said, “what does it look like, Claud?”

“Sorry, Myka,” the young woman said, bowing her head. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

It was Pete that stepped in now, for Myka was tying her hair up forcibly, eyes looking towards the book on her desk and the papers beside her. Only the sound of a workman’s lorry pulling up had her raising her gaze, but with worried brows, she looked back to the paper. “Help me get these books out,” he said with a point to the broken shelves, one almost toppling. “And we’ll fix this good as new... old,” he corrected, remembering their antique quality.

Soon, Myka’s windows were fixed, cleaner and brighter than ever; more expensive than ever. She smiled and thanked the men, and then frowned as she went back to her books. The shelves were fixed a little before eleven and Claudia said that she would spend the rest of her day being Myka while Myka was in Myka over-drive, craning her neck down harshly to scribble numbers and sigh heavily. The Claudia/Myka hybrid of a person, shorter than the original but suddenly just as pedantic made sure that books were dusted and shaken gently to air the pages before stacking them back in, alphabetically and neatly slotted in next to each other. She also made sure that Myka ate, drank water, looked up and stood up to stretch and move about, even when swatted away.

“Do not make me mother you, Miss Bering. Now do as you’re told, please.” Myka would, without words, and Claudia thought the silence would drive her insane.

Across town, and for hours as she had promised, Helena sat next to Nathaniel MacPherson as he schmoozed and impressed “long-time clients.” She did her bit as well, of course, never once letting on or showing a hint of her desire to leave and return to Myka’s side. She had most possibly been the root cause of the attack on the bookshop, and so it felt wrong as if her skin was crawling with her misdeed to be anywhere at that moment than right beside the woman to help her clean up, fix up, and mend in every way possible.

But she couldn’t, shouldn’t, and for Myka’s future safety and that of her bookshop, she wouldn’t leave. And so, she stayed, painfully, rather silent.

~ ~ ~ ~

When the silence grew dulling to the point of boredom and he seemed to admit that neither would win this silent argument of forcing each other to stay in the other’s presence, Nathaniel stood from the table and gathered his papers, intent on doing them elsewhere. “You can go, if you want,” he muttered softly. “I don’t need you for the rest of the day. Not tomorrow either, and then it’s Christmas and, god...” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to spend the day with the extended family instead of just mine.” He looked at her and she looked at her lap.

His pause beckoned her to look up, and she met his gaze as he regarded her somewhat. “What?”

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Don’t invite me some place,” she begged, her brows furrowing in disgust at the idea.

“No, of course not,” he confirmed, pulling a similar face. Silence settled again before the pages on the table were stacked and picked up. “I’ll see you on Friday afternoon for drinks as usual.”

“See you then,” and a moment after Nathaniel left the table, Helena stood and left as well. The silver Rolls Royce took her to Myka’s store, and she was pleasantly relieved to see windows again. Artie left her with a half-smile of concern and pity, for which she read as knowing, and so then she was alone on a cold, bleak street with nervous hands pulling at threads in her coat pockets.

Myka was at her desk, hunched over and hair tussled as if she had just been in bed with the woman walking in her store, but alas, it was because she had not been in a bed for over twenty-four hours. Before Helena could say anything – and she was having a hard time trying to find the words to say at all – she heard a book drop to the floor shelves over, and her mouth clamped shut.

“Sorry,” came a meek voice, and Myka murmured in returned.

“Hello,” Helena said, more to the meek voice than the woman, or rather the mess of a human leaning over the desk, but it was Myka who responded first.

“Hi,” she breathed tiredly, and Helena rushed to her, whispering her _darling_ s and smoothing her hands over the other woman’s head and face, her shoulders and wrapping her arms around those shoulders to hold her.

“Claudia’s shelving for me.”

“Hello,” came the meek voice, but bolder and a little cheerier now, keeping Myka going.

“I’m doing the numbers.”

“What does it look like?” Helena asked.

“It took a bite out of my savings, that’s for sure.”

“Do you think you’ll have to start work earlier next year?” Helena asked, a kiss pressed to Myka’s head before rounding to the front of the desk again.

“That’s not really what I’m thinking about, Helena,” and to hear her name, although being the only one obviously spoken to, was reminiscent of anger that preceded her face being slapped.

“Of course not,” she hushed apologetically.

“I’m thinking about how easy it was for this to be done. I’m thinking about how I was maybe supposed to be here, not _here_ but upstairs where I could hear it and worry, rush down and then be attacked. I’m thinking about who did this. I’m thinking about how in the span of a night my world flipped, and in the span of a few months there had never been a reason for it to flip before but now, there’s-“

“Myka,” Claudia’s voice came from around the bookshelf, a frown on her face. “Think.” She nodded and Myka blinked back, before tears welled up in her eyes at having heard what her shaky voice had just said, of how they were said to Helena, _at_ her.

“Helena...” she said.

“I am truly so sorry, Myka, and if I could vanish and take all of this away with me, I’d-“

“Now, you stop,” Myka said, standing from her desk, closing her book with a heavy thud. She sniffled and frowned, before taking a few short breaths that developed eventually into a yawn.

“You’re exhausted, darling.”

“Go and sleep, Bering,” Claudia said. “I’ll keep working; it’ll be okay.”

“Thanks, Claud,” Myka said, stepping over to her to hug her for a moment. She left to head upstairs with Helena in tow, holding hands loosely until the door, and then Claudia imagined all the way upstairs and into bed, Helena sitting on the side and drawing lazy and soothing circles on the woman’s back until she fell asleep.

_I’m thinking about who did this_. Still, they did not and could not, probably would not know who had vandalised Myka’s store, but Helena would continue to feel guilty. Myka had been angry, but she had been right. In the span of a few months her safe and comfortable little life had become fancied and passionate, a love affair for the ages, but it had come with risk and now that risk had tipped over into actual danger and effect.

She pulled out a random book from Myka’s shelf and slumped into the couch to read, to distract her mind, but she couldn’t focus. She tried, but Myka was there in front of her, finally asleep, but no doubt worrying in her dreams. Before she could worry herself too much, there was a knock downstairs, and she imagined that Claudia wanted something, or perhaps had finished earlier than expected and was saying her goodbyes.

When she opened the door, however, she saw that the knock, kindly and short, was from Pete. He stood in a long coat and long slacks – the image slightly odd to Helena’s eyes after seeing his white and chilled legs so very often after school – and his head was ducked deep into his scarf. “Hello.”

“Hello, Mr Lattimer,” she said.

“Is Myka home?” and she told herself to repress the smile at hearing words that insinuated it was her home as well.

“She’s asleep.”

“Perfect, actually.”

“Oh?”

“I would...” he paused, letting his eyes fall to look at the ground. There seemed to be in front of him, between him and the door that crossed to Helena, a line. This line was something he was to cross, had been preparing himself all day to cross, but now that it was finally there in front of him, he was nervous. He was sure, and yet unsure, and needed a pause and a breath to truly prepare himself before saying words that would turn harsh, said softly but harsh, and before crossing a line that could not be uncrossed. “I would like to talk to you alone.”

She nodded and welcomed him in, stepping aside and watching as he looked at the ground again and stepped over the threshold.

The floor was now home for the books that usually lived on Myka’s chairs, for she had people over more often. It had taken her time, but she had friends of a more corporeal form to fill those seats. Pete draped his coat and scarf over the back of one and sat as Helena did, and it made him smile at how they both seemed so comfortable there. He rested an elbow on the table as he sat off centre to it, a little twisted, and Helena tucked her foot underneath her other knee, casual in her seat.

Nervous hands clasped in front of her in her lap, however, betrayed that casual setting of the conversation, and so Pete just got on with it.

“Myka hasn’t told me anything,” he said. Helena sighed with an appreciative smile. “Obviously I know that something happened or there was a something and that’s why you broke up, but... I don’t know what it is. She hasn’t told me, and I wouldn’t ask.” Another appreciative smile. “You know, it’s not my relationship. It’s you two and I don’t want either of you to have to... I don’t know... divulge things that you’d rather keep secret, even from each other. You’ve gotta be safe you know?”

“Thank you,” Helena said, for words needed to be said in trump to a simple smile.

“But now... this thing has happened,” – the attack on her store – “and I know that Myka accepted whatever the thing was. She did or you both did and you’re together and you’re happy... Helena, I’ve never seen her like this... but now her shop has been trashed, so I can’t help but wonder if this thing is the reason why.”

For a moment it looked to Helena in the soft lighting of the apartment, with curtains closed, that the brave man before her might cry. Somehow, he was braver in his gesture to sniffle and let the tears well for a moment, before blinking them away.

“I don’t know how it could be or whatever, but it’s this big question mark, you know, and so I gotta wonder.”

“I’ve wondered as well...”

“And I don’t want you to be the reason why this has happened. You’re not!” he asserts. “Because Myka... hell, she loves you and I trust that she hasn’t misplaced that love,” his voice wavered on the last words. “And I can only hope that you care for her in equal amount and wouldn’t hurt her.”

“I’d never want to hurt her,” Helena said, careful not to outright say that she’d simply never hurt Myka because, she knew, she had. “But you’re right... this thing...”

“If this thing hurts her or the thing that she has bled and cried over and given so much of her soul to...” and now his bottom lip wobbled a bit and she wondered how little sleep he had gotten in the last twenty-four hours as well. “She’s... apart from my fiancé and sometimes including her, Myka is everything to me,” and he began weeping, eyes reddened and burning; burning because of and into Helena. “She’s my best friend and my hero. If there was a person I was ever meant to find it was her.”

Helena nodded because she saw that in him, and she felt it in herself. Myka was their meant to be, in whatever capacity that took.

“So, I couldn’t just let her be ruined by something if it could be helped. I’m worried, you know. Because... god dammit, I like you Helena. You’ve made Myka glow, and I’ve never seen her like that before. I’ve never seen her eyes smile even when her face isn’t.” Helena smiled at that, even though her own eyes were wet. “I like you, but if...” he sniffled and wiped aggressively, pained, at his eyes so as to rid the flowing tears. “If this thing is the... variable,” and they shared a second of jest in amusement and impression before growing sombre again. “That is a threat to Myka in any way, and you’re the reason that it’s here then...” and he couldn’t help the tear that ran heavily down his cheek, for he really did not want to say these words but he had crossed a line to say them... “then I hate you as well.”

A heavy tear ran down Helena’s cheek as well and she worried that her stifled whimpers would stay quiet for only so much longer. She didn’t want him to hate her either. She didn’t want Myka to, not anyone. A noise from the other side of the apartment, a whimper and Myka moved in bed, and so their conversation came to an end. Pete had crossed the line and said the words, and so the conversation was over. Pete stood up and asked if Helena knew if Myka needed anything because he would do her groceries. Helena handed him a shopping list that she had made earlier that morning when Myka was chewing her lip in the corner of the kitchen bench and said, “thank you.”

“What for?” he asked as he pulled his coat on.

“Is it incredibly self-righteous to think that if I left, Myka would break?”

“A little,” he laughed. “But accurate.”

“Well then, thank you. Because when Myka breaks, I now know that you’ll be there to piece her back together.” Pete’s forehead wrinkled again in his attempts not to cry, for it was final. For Helena, she knew it was final. “Goodbye, Mr Lattimer.”

“Goodbye, Miss Wells.”

~ ~ ~ ~

That night it was colder than any night before, or perhaps Helena only felt that way because she felt that all blood had vanished from her body. Her hands were icy and cool to the touch no matter how many times Myka grabbed them and rubbed them together, or held her entire body close to her. Helena clung to her, and Myka naively believed it to be simply because the other woman was cold.

“You fool,” Helena whispered to the both of them.

Over dinner, she was silent, and it was painful. She noticed that Myka knew and was pushing her roast vegetables around through gravy for a long while before taking a bite, of which was small when she did. “What do you suppose I should say when Tracy brings up my ‘special someone’?” she finally asked, not making eye contact at all with Helena, but trying to play along like everything was fine; like she wasn’t hundreds of dollars out of pocket, like Helena hadn’t been tight-lipped all day practically, and like everyone in her life wasn’t walking on egg-shells around her as of the moment she’d stepped on some of her own in the form of her store’s front window.

“You’ve told her of me?” Helena asked, looking up to a bowed head. Her eyes dropped to the tablecloth between them; pristine and white. It looked expensive. Helena sighed, and Myka took the sigh for disappointment or worry at Tracy having known of her existence.

“Not that you’re a woman. I love my sister, but I do not need to drop that in her lap. I simply told her that I have met a _someone_.”

“I do hope that you can tell her one day of your love for women.”

“Of my love for you, you mean,” Myka said without really looking to Helena to seal that point. Instead she continued with her original train of conversation. “She’s bound to bring it up, most likely in front of my parents, and I suppose it is _inevitable_ that I tell them one day, but… I’m not sure if this Christmas, or any major holiday is the time.”

Helena had only heard the word _inevitable_ in Myka’s sentence. The rest of her words drowned out in comparison. Inevitable it was, indeed. Helena sat there, her own dinner touched far less than Myka’s, and she found it inevitable. Her stomach turned on itself and the mere image of food ahead of her made her queasy. She pushed her plate away.

Myka looked up. “Are you alright, Helena? You’ve barely touched your dinner, not that I can talk.”

“It is inevitable,” Helena said, a touch too loud, and simply aloud at all. She had meant the statement to be internal, as was the decision that preceded it. She had already decided, and so to put it off and eat her dinner that would only sit on an uneasy stomach was wrong, for the end result was inevitable.

“What is?” and Myka pushed her plate away as well, the table cloth buckling underneath.

“Myka.” She paused, and swallowed. There was a lump in her throat and she felt that she would very much rather excuse herself to the bathroom to empty her stomach of whatever it was so vehemently wanting to rid itself of before she spoke anymore, but she couldn’t. Her utterance of the other woman’s name had her met with a heavy breath from across the table, and she could tell from such a breath that Myka’s heart was racing. Hers was as well.

With a nod down to herself, closed eyes, lips bit and licked all at once, Myka whispered, “say it.” She knew it – whatever she feared _it_ was – was inevitable too.

“We need to end this.”

“What?”

“I know that we are both uncertain as to why or who was the culprit to your store’s attack, but I am certain that your safety would be more ensured if I was out of the picture.”

“Stop.”

“Myka, we must-“

“Say it again,” and Helena looked up to her with perplexed eyes and a slight shake of her head. “Say it again, but with less words. Don’t drown it out with an explanation.”

Helena complied, and oh, how bitter her less-drowned-out words tasted in her mouth. “We need to break up… because I am worried for your safety.”

Myka shook her head, and sleepy curls bounced around her ears. She brought a hand up and pushed it through those curls, dragging them away from her bothered face. “I will not break up with you.”

“Then I will with you.”

“You will what?”

“Myka, stop. Stop making me say it.”

“Why?”

“Why, what? Why must you stop making me say it? Because it hurts, more than you think it does, and I don’t want to become mad at you about this. I needn’t be, for it is my fault,” she said angrily, to herself, but to Myka as well even though she had just said that she hadn’t wanted to be. She pushed back in her chair and hated the screech of chair legs across wooden floors. “I know it is my fault. That so much of this is my fault, and that is why I am doing this, so that nothing else happens to you because of me,” she said with emphasised points to Myka and then to her chest, stiff and icy fingers pressing harshly into her skin.

“Sorry,” Myka said. Helena was flushed, and her chest was growing blotchy, in both red and purple and she had never seen both of those colours on the woman before. She stood and crossed to her, grabbing her gently by the wrist and holding those hands down by her own side, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “This doesn’t have to happen.”

“It does,” Helena whispered. “It’s inevitable.”

“Stop saying that,” Myka spat like a petulant child, stepping back and dropping those cold hands. “And why must we break up?”

“Myka, I’ve told you why.”

“For my safety.”

“Yes,” Helena said with a sigh in her voice. She brought her cold hand to her bared chest, pushing aside at the collar of her blouse so that she may press her palm flat against warm skin.

“But you have not told me why?”

“Myka…”

“ _Why_ is my safety in danger? What is so dangerous to my existence, that _you_ are the cause of? What is this secret that is making this happen?” Myka paused, her nostrils practically flaring as she found her own skin flushed, almost blotching if she dared to look down at it, but she couldn’t. In that moment, ever so inevitable as it was, for so many elements to their current argument was inevitable, she could only hold her steely and threatening-to-falter gaze on Helena, and Helena alone. “Why?”

When her eyes followed and tracked from the other woman’s eyes to her lips that barely opened in attempt of an answer, but stayed closed most of all, Myka saw Helena’s hesitation at an answer for what it was. An inevitable – and she was so entirely sick of hearing the word whether aloud or in her own head – part to their story as well, it turned out. _Was she really ever going to tell me? Was she ever going to trust me completely?_

As her mind answered a bold and resounding, stabbing, _no_ , her eyes fell to the floor. _So, that’s that…_ “Again?”

“What, again?” Helena asked.

“You ended this last time because you wouldn’t tell me... you won’t end it with him for some reason, whatever reason. Whatever it is you won’t tell me, and here you are, doing it again.”

“I did not end it, Myka.”

“See, I think you did,” she said with a step back and a one-fingered point at the other woman, jousting at the end of her harsh arm jabbing towards her before raising to run through her curls again. “I want you, Helena. I love you, so I tell you things, but you can’t, you _won’t_ tell me anything.”

“Myka, it’s more complicated than that.”

“I don’t think it is,” and she suddenly wished her curls would fall to cover the welling of her eyes, before a tear ran down her cheek. Helena stepped forward and ran her thumb across it, wiping it across and away. Unlike last time, Myka didn’t push her away.

“You love me?” she asked.

“I’d be a fool not to. You lit a spark in me that I thought only books would ever do. You hold my hand and my heart feels warmer.” At this, Helena slipped her hand inside Myka’s shirt, her fingertips under her bra strap, to press against her heart. “Of course, I love you,” and another tear dropped, because she was beginning to shake. Shaking because she did not ever think that she would be saying those words into utter darkness of heart. Helena leaned her chin up and kissed her softly. It deepened, Myka hummed in protest, and so Helena tucked her chin back down. “Just please... tell me...”

“I can’t,” and Myka breathed out heavily, swallowed, blinked her tears away. She slid her hand into her shirt, over Helena’s hand to slowly bring it out, gripping it oh, so tightly for she was mad, broken, and did not want to do what would happen next but knew that she would forever feel that broken if she did not. It was…

“Leave then.”

Helena stepped away with a nod, pressing her fingertips to her lips and beginning to walk backwards. She turned when her back hit the wall of the kitchen entry, and turned to the coat rack on the far wall. As she pulled her coat on, she saw Alice sitting on the small coffee table by the couch, and so she crossed to her. She leaned down and placed her cold fingertips upon the cover, saying a simple, “I have lost so much because of this man, I will not lose you too.”

And although she had been so finite a moment ago, Myka crumbled twice as much as before, practically screaming, “you are losing me if we break up! If you end this then I am lost.” Myka found her heavy words trying to reason, but to already decided, purposefully deafened ears.

“To have you alone and nowhere near me is a more necessary desire than to have you close but at risk.”

“ _Necessary?!_ ”

“Myka, darling, my darling... I do not expect you to understand but I must do this alone.”

“What?” Myka asked; asking questions, always seeming to ask too many questions that were never going to be answered. She should have known that at that point, but still the rip in her heart demanded she know why. “What do you have to do alone?”

“Myka, no more. I cannot tell you another thing.”

“Tell me that you love me.”

“I cannot,” Helena whined, beginning to cry. She wished she could; she wanted to because she did, of course, she did, but…

The fight within Helena was always so bitter in its strength. When she was a child, it was over if she should let her brother beat her at whatever game they were playing. When she grew older, it was to decide if she should leave for the new world. Then it was if she should keep Christina, and by that point she knew that with every inner battle, the opposing sides seemed to grow more equipped for the fight. Out of all the fights she had battled with herself, that was the hardest, but also the easiest to decide on. She had no love in this new world, but then in an instant, she did. And didn’t, and thus the next battle, and then the next, and the next to Chicago, and the next, the next, the next… Nathaniel appeared in her life more formatively and her plan was progressing, the over-arching battle almost approaching to a success.

And then there was Myka, and her plan was paused, her life was flipped, other battles halted, all so that she could forget about battles within herself long enough to live a little, love a lot, and lose herself to a feeling of solely winning. But again, almost as inevitable as everything else in her life, it seemed, Myka herself became a battle. The biggest battle of her life thus far, because the decision wasn’t easy as well, and to top it off she was telling herself to not tell the woman that she loved, _that_ she loved her. Infinite battles.

“I cannot tell you that I love you,” she said. Her voice was calm, for perhaps a voice of calm would make surviving this night more possible.

“But you do!”

“I cannot say it, and have it held from your grasp. If I told you, it would only hurt you more.”

“I’m hurting already as it is!” Myka practically yelled. She supposed that she would have a visit from Steve or Leena, or both, the next morning asking if she needed anything for of course, she was not alright.

And through gritted teeth Helena said, “and that is already more than enough. Goodbye Myka,” and she tugged her coat around her, intending on leaving Myka’s apartment.

The next moments crawled along in slow motion – less of a dream this time – and she knew it was a mistake; Myka knew it, but her lips let out the other woman’s name and Helena turned around, buckling like Myka’s lips had enough to say her name.  Helena turned around and barely looked where she was going. She knew where she was going: Myka.

The kiss was bruising, and both imagined as they moved against each other with such intensity and force that they themselves deserved it, desired it. If it was to end, the greatest romance of their lives, quite possibly; if it was to end then they each needed something immediate from their last shared moments to remember each other by, and whilst hurting internally, both supposed that external pain and wounds would be as sufficient an option as any.

Shirts were peeled away, dragged away so that fingernails would scratch; stockings slid down in the same fashion, before Myka pushed Helena to her bed, coming down to settle between her thighs with weight and a roll of her hips that was both suffocating in its pleasure and torturous in its force. She felt Helena’s hands in her hair, winding around curls before pulling and directing, pressing into the base of her skull as lips sucked at her throat. If this was to end, if this was their last time, why not make it the best, the worst, the most everything either could ever fathom it to be.

Helena’s hands scratched and clung to her lover, her soon to be former-lover, but for now… When Myka’s lips dragged to her chest; impatient hands pushed aside her bra straps and tugged cups down; lips again pressed and slid against hardened nipples before being covered completely, she arched her back, hooked her ankles as best she could over legs between her, muttered the closest words to those she could only now and forever dream of saying… “Myka, my love…”

In an instant as sharp as teeth on her soft breast, Helena’s body was free of Myka’s body, trapped in the weight of nothing. Myka stood up and away from her, hands coming to cover her face. “You don’t get to do that, Helena.” She was mad.

“Myka...”

“You don’t get to make me fall in love with you, let me fall in love with you and then leave.” She groaned in frustration as her eyes betrayed her and she began to cry again. She wiped tears away angrily, almost hitting her face with the force of doing so, and she – for a fraction of a moment – worried if she was going to be too harsh with the words that sat at the tip of her tongue and teeth, wanting to come out. But, she reasoned with a harsh and pausing blink of her tired, tired eyes, that her heart felt like it was being torn apart.

Her arms, her chest, her brain, every part of her felt like it was been held tightly together by loving arms and now she was being pulled apart. “You don’t get to build me up and then break me. You don’t get to heal my wounds and then stab me through my scars.” She finally turned around and Helena was silently crying, but so was she and she was pretty sure that she started first so this time, she didn’t crumble. She bent down to the floor and stood back up with such pace that her vision clouded for a second, but when it cleared, she continued. She buttoned up her shirt and picked up her stockings, pulling them back on as carefully as she could as to not cause a run, but when she did, hastened her movements all the same, and then finally marched to her coat on the far wall.

“I’m going to walk,” she mumbled, just loud enough for Helena to hear. “When I get back please don’t be here.” She stopped at the top of the staircase. She wanted to say something poetic, because she read, and she wrote, and it was who she was at her core, but she was also heartbroken and tired and couldn’t think of any words that wouldn’t burn her to say as much as they would burn Helena to hear. So, she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but oh the angst is what we live for!!


	19. NINETEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember hearing the saying, "absence makes the heart grow fonder," and I always supposed it had merit. I certainly missed people more, stronger, more painfully. So maybe this absence will also offer perspective as well

“How was the train ride?” Tracy asked as she helped Myka carry her bags to the cab that waited for them. She only had her purse and a small suitcase, of which she would have been able to carry easily, and yet her sister was always cheery and helpful and that was why people loved her. That was why Myka loved her.

The train ride was long and deafening, but it also felt to Myka as if it only lasted a few minutes, her first step from platform to carriage her last clear memory of the trip. From there the ride was filled with a crying child and an elderly man beside her that snored far too long, and far too loud. She had pulled the edges of her woollen cap over her ears in hopes that it would dull it all out, but it didn’t work. She had tried to read, to hum some Frank Sinatra to herself, to even put off a headache that threatened to arrive, but all were fruitless endeavours.

“I have a headache,” Myka finally answered as the two sisters settled into their seats in the back of the cab.

“That good, hey?”

At least the cab ride was quieter, shorter.

After her welcomes and hugs from family, her father always short with his words, whether kind or dismissive, Myka was left to settle into her bedroom. Her old bedroom that still had a photo of her and Sam framed on her dresser desk, reading beneath a tree in the local park one spring. One of their mutual high school friends had taken it and framed it for her when Sam had been killed. Picking it up and dropping her bags, she carried it to the bed and lay down, holding it to her chest to enjoy utter silence.

She would lay on her bed from time to time in her winter break, her break from Chicago, holding Sam to her chest and whispering to him when she needed to. One Friday night after she and Tracy had stayed up late talking, catching up – and she had diverted at every chance she was offered so that she did not have to mention Helena, or women, or anything to do deeply with her heart – she told Sam about Helena.

“She loves books, Sam. And I think that she loves me, too, but… I can’t be sure anymore. Wouldn’t you fight for someone that you love?” she asked the down-faced frame. “Wouldn’t you fight? I thought I had. I didn’t know what to do when you… but I thought I fought for something.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Christmas night was the first time since her tears fell from her cheeks to Helena’s that she cried again. In honesty, Myka was unsure how she had managed that feat at all but supposed that she was tired and in shock. In her mind, she still had the feeling that her body would be returning to Chicago to spend cold winter nights in bed with Helena, and crisp winter days reading to her. After she hung up the family telephone from talking with Pete, she wiped at her eyes and took herself to her bedroom, excusing herself from further family time in lieu of sleep, for she was tired.

She was and needed to expel that exhaustion with her tears. It was hours before she finally fell asleep, her pillow damp and the sleeve of her pyjamas as well. Atop the list of grudges she now held against the woman that resided in her heart, but with sharp edges now, she cursed her for denying her of sleep, even if only by her mere thought.

She woke up the next day, cleansed of and by her tears, and began to write. She wrote an emboldened letter to Helena, and folded it up to keep in the pocket of her suitcase. She would not send it. She did not even know what address to send it to if she were to. Myka took herself downstairs to her father’s store, settling at his desk with the wireless on whilst he stayed upstairs and enjoyed his own small holiday from work, and wrote. She did not know what to write, only that she wanted to and that it was necessary for her to do so.

She described her feelings as the forces of nature, and the animals that became turn-coat for survival in that nature. She described the weather and found her words become soft, comfortable and familiar. The sun turned to blush in cheeks. The wind blended into the flow of dark hair splayed across the pale of a pillowcase or Myka’s chest. The snow against the window, melting and trickling down became the sweat down the curve of Myka’s back as her arms strained to hold herself up, to hold Helena against her, to bring Helena closer to her and closer to…

She dropped her pen and leaned back in her chair, arching her back and frowning at how even that dragged her mind back. Perry Como came on the wireless, begging her to surrender again even though she already had too many times before. She turned the radio off and did not write any more for the day.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was the new year one day, and Tracy decided that the snow would not keep the Bering sisters house-bound. Myka had more layers on than she had ever worn in Chicago, and thought her fashion choices to accomplish that rather ridiculous. No store nor café would be open at all, and so there was no place of refuge should they need it, and yet Tracy was insistent. “Smile for me, please.”

“You don’t have a camera, Trace,” Myka mumbled back, her chin ducked into her scarf.

“But smile for me. I have forgotten your smile,” and Myka looked up. Her sister’s eyes were beseeching with a hue of red in them that was not because of the wind or cold. Myka ignored the request and stepped across the icy path gingerly enough to encase her sister in her arms, nuzzling the side of her head into Tracy’s. “What has happened, Myka?”

And if only there was a café that was open, for icy streets were not the place for this conversation, nor was even their home living room, for the walls there were thin and the kitchen where Mrs Bering puttered had ears. Alas, they didn’t much have the choice, and so the local park where memories of Sam lived, where the whisper of Helena’s name would soon reside, in the cracks of the old pine tree trunks, in the frozen over pond, in the long stretch of bare branches echoing of the Englishwoman’s arms and elegant fingertips, was theirs instead.

At least, it was vacant of other eyes and ears; practically entirely theirs.

“I met someone,” Myka began as the path diverged to circle around the pond. She wanted to walk along one side away from Tracy but did not want her voice to raise in volume, and so they stuck together.

“You said. Who is he?” Myka breathed in heavily, trying to think of how she should broach it, how she should broach _her_. Tracy took her breath and pause for the hesitation it was, but for a different reason. “He’s not married is he? A criminal?” and Myka wondered for a moment if she could say yes, and yes, and tell her sister about instead the man of which her someone was attached, was in an arrangement with. But she couldn’t, shouldn’t, would not. Helena was a delicate issue to talk of, but even with pain coursing through her veins, Myka could imagine no other decision but to talk of her.

“No. He’s not married. He’s not a criminal… at least…”

“At least?” Tracy asked with equal measure of amusement and concern.

“And he’s not…” the point of no return. “We’re not together anymore.”

“Oh, Myka, I’m sorry.” She returned. She wanted to talk of Helena, but had no idea how to, and omission seemed to lace her life quite a bit of late. Myka was, at her core, and with that pain so freshly coursing her veins, unable to fight anymore.

“They kept secrets from me. I know now… or at least I think I know it because it’s been said enough by h-“ she paused, and wiped at her eyes, at tears that weren’t necessarily there. “It was for my safety. I’m still hurting because of it all though, and my store was vandalised perhaps because of it-“

“What? Myka, your store?”

“It’s alright, Tracy. The store is fixed, and I am safe,” and she would have said more, but was stopped in her voice by the woollen arms that pulled her in to hold, to squeeze, to sway her entire body from side to side in methodical support. “I’m alright, Trace… I’m alright, I’m alright,” she repeated. No more was said of _them_ for a long while, the sisters walking arm in arm around the park in soft silence to simply be.

“I was happy for a while there,” Myka spoke again. “Whether I was or not, I felt loved, and I was happy. I don’t think that I have felt that since…”

“Sam would want you to be happy, Myka,” Tracy said as she brought her other hand up to grip on her sister’s forearm. “I want you to be happy.”

“Thank you.”

Snow falling kindly to their shoulders chased them home, and Myka was glad in part to have spoken if only a little of her past few months, and of her heart’s troubles. She wished, as she would continue to do with every day that Tracy smiled at her and offered the support only a sister, only _her_ sister could offer, that she could have told her everything. Yet, so much had changed in her life up until that point, over the course of long and often lonely years, that no one had heard the full elaboration of.

Tracy was someone she trusted, but even with trust, understanding did not always follow. Silence would continue to be her greatest ally until what her secrets whispered were not things to be villainised for.

~ ~ ~ ~

One afternoon, a week in January when her father was back in his store preparing and making sure that every shelf was perfect for the next week, when he would open it again, Myka was in the kitchen with her mother. They were baking some croissants – a recipe that Jeannie had received as a Christmas gift from a friend – whilst a hearty stew bubbled away like a witches’ cauldron atop the stove. Myka’s hands were buttery and soft against each other as she rubbed them, not much helping and instead getting distracted by her prediction of how these croissants would turn out.

She did not even know the bakers personally; the bakers that owned the patisserie bakery where Helena had bought croissants more than a few times. She did not know them personally and therefore had no real tangible, nor arguable reason to predict as she was, but she knew that their croissants would be better than her own mother’s. Her heart was still split and seeping blood like a ripe fruit torn open, and yet anything, _anything_ that Helena’s hands had touched, Myka knew was the better, unmatched in rich and perfect quality.

Perhaps, she should therefore look upon her own self with such glazed eyes and adoration, and yet she couldn’t. The way she saw it, a croissant could not be a fool.

“You need to eat more, sweetheart,” her mother’s voice broke through to her.

“You sound like dad.”

“He worries about you.”

“I know,” Myka said, although there were more than a handful of times where she really didn’t. Her father never was very good at showing his heart. Perhaps that was why she was too ready in doing it herself.

“But you are looking rather thin,” her mother continued.

“I eat enough. Don’t worry. And how can you even tell through all of my layers?” Myka asked, turning around a little to parade her cardigan over sweater over long shirt. She did look rather puffy, and covered in flour.

“You’re making a mess, Myka,” Tracy said as she wandered in and through said mess. She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the bench. “And there’s someone on the phone for you,” she said through her new mouthful of fruit.

“Oh?”

“Fellow called Steve?”

Myka frowned a little and wondered, firstly, how Steve had gotten the phone number, and secondly, why on earth he was calling. They were friends, of course, and she did miss seeing his face every day, but the call was rather out of the blue just the same. She dusted her hands against her cardigan – it would be getting a wash later anyway – and moved off into the hall.

“Steve?”

“Hey, Myka. How are you?”

“Well?”

“Be more uncertain about it,” he jested.

“Sorry, I’m just wondering now if _you_ are well if you are calling so unexpectedly,” Myka explained.

“I’m fine, physically.”

“Steve…”

“The Knockbox was vandalised last night… while I was there with Leena and Claudia.”

“Oh, no, Steve!”

“Myka, is everything alright?” her mother’s voice called from the kitchen.

“I’m alright, sorry,” she returned, moving the handset away from her mouth for a moment, before moving it back a second later. “Are the girls alright?”

“Yes. Shaken up a bit, but it got me thinking. You’ve been there a few times, yeah?”

“Yes… I don’t know what that…” Myka paused. She had been there a few times. Not recently, but a few times, yes. With Steve, and Leena. Sometimes, with no one at all. She had never left with anyone either, but the fact still remained that The Knockbox was a known establishment where _people like her_ frequented. “Yes, I do,” she mumbled. “Steve… what did you think?”

“Maybe someone had seen you, had remembered your face, and then saw you at your bookshop? Maybe this wasn’t whatever Pete seemed so serious about… what you and your friend, Helena, seemed so serious about… maybe it was… something…” he sighed. “Something more common for us.”

“Maybe…” Myka whispered in response to this theory, this very plausible theory. It would not be the first time – nor the last – that such an attack on such an establishment or person had been made in Chicago, and very well, the world. “What happened?”

“Windows smashed with rocks, molotov’s thrown in, the expected,” he half-joked, half-spat. It was expected. “A few people got hit, but nothing beyond a few scratches. Really just the damage to the place itself, but they’ll rebuild. We’ll help.”

“I’ll help when I return.”

“Maybe lay low, Myka,” Steve urged. “In case you were attacked for the same reason. Let’s not give them reason to do it again and with more hateful intent.” She hated that he was right but…

“You’re right. And you’re safe; I’m glad that you are… that everyone is.”

“Missing you, only.”

“And I, you all.”

The remaining few weeks until she had planned to venture back to Chicago felt just that little bit too far away, and the feeling in itself was nice, for resulting was the feeling of happiness humming in her tummy. Myka was suddenly looking forward to returning back to her little life, slightly battered though it was, but her content and mostly safe little life in the big smoke.

Resting her hand atop the receiver for a moment, Myka thought again on the last few months. Again, again, always again. It was a miracle her mind thought about anything else. She made the thoughts stop after a moment, turning to carry her floured self back to the kitchen. She would have to clean the floors as well later after cleaning her clothes.

Later that night, sitting at her dresser desk again like she had routinely begun to do before sleep each night, she wrote out a small list for herself of what she would endeavour to do when back in the north of the country. She would have a sneaky sale or two so that she may scrape in a little extra money for The Knockbox. She would get in contact with Claudia and spend some time with her, asking to know when each of her gigs were so that she may attend. She would invite Amanda shopping so that she may help in some small way towards the wedding, and then take Pete shopping as well to find the right suit to wear; not just the first one off the rack that he thought fit him.

She would close her books earlier at night so that she could write for herself, and dream for herself, create for herself. She would take her time and experience, her wounds with Helena as part of her story because she couldn’t fathom any other way to keep living without falling back into a rabbit hole and wishing for Helena to take her back.

She pushed that piece of paper aside and began writing something else. “Helena,” she began. “I must continue my life, and find my happiness in life again, but with that being said – or written – there is still nothing more I would like when I read the messages in my bloodied scars than for you to take me back. I love you. Please.”

The letter sat untouched all night, unfolded and there for anyone to read if they stepped in at any moment to check on Myka for any reason; the letter sat there all night. Myka’s sleep was restless and she woke the next morning with the dried memory of tears on her cheeks.

~ ~ ~ ~

A clearer day arrived, and it was a Saturday. A Helena day. Tracy practically dragged Myka out to walk the icy streets again, and to wander through the park in hopes of more to the story, more to the silent months that had chipped away at the Myka strolling sadly beside her. They passed through streets and past a few stores that were open. A few cafes were open, and although their wall art left much to be desired, Myka sat kindly in a chair to have a cup of strong coffee with her sister whose smile practically whined for her to accept the idea.

“And what of you, little sister?” Myka began when she could see that Tracy wanted to ask more questions of _him_ … _her… them._ “Have any boys asked you on dates of late?”

“A few, but none that…”

“Have tickled your fancy?” Myka asked with a coy grin over the lip of her cup, bringing the hot ceramic to her lips.

“You haven’t told me much of him, and I know that he has hurt you…” _oh…_ Myka thought. “But there is a sparkle in your eyes when you’ve spoken of him these last weeks. Even not speaking,” Tracy insisted.

“What do you mean?”

“You write about him, don’t you?” Myka’s eyes fell to the table cloth. It was gingham and cheery. It was reminiscent of an innocent frivolity that had always appeared to her almost as if on the other side of a window. She could see it. She could watch it. She never had it. “I’ve seen you in dad’s store, or in the living room-“

“Or?”

Tracy shook her head confused. “No where else. I’d never read your words, Myka, unless you let me,” she said, reaching her hand across the cheery innocence. Myka paused before reaching out and holding. “But I’ve seen you when there is nothing else in your mind and heart, and…”

“And?” Myka prompted. What was her sister’s assessment of her heart?

“I’ve not met a boy who makes me feel like that, even when my heart is breaking.”

“And I hope that you don’t, when your heart is breaking. If he does, I’ll…”

“And if I meet this mystery man of yours, I’ll… too,” Tracy promised sincerely, yet with a cheeky smile. Their coffees were finished in time with less weighty and daunting conversational topics.

“They should turn it into a club,” Tracy began as they stepped out to the street again, quite at random. Before Myka could respond or ask a question to clarify in any way, she found herself being dragged across the street towards a small gated stairway that led to some secluded space beneath another series of stores. That same secluded and always abandoned space had sat in such a way since it had been closed years before. It was once a café, Myka recalled, or maybe she only thought it was because there was a café above it. Either way, “it’d be such a good atmosphere for a club. Dark, hidden away, for deeds not spoken about in daylight.”

“What have you been listening to, young Miss Bering, to conjure ideas like that?” Myka asked, slightly amused and impressed by her sister, always the sweeter of the two.

“Jazz,” was her simple answer, and Myka thought it awfully callous to reduce an entire genre of music to _dark and hidden deeds_ , and whatever images Tracy’s mind was filled with, although she did much feel those things when listening to certain songs herself.

“The Rabbit Hole,” Myka said. “They could call it The Rabbit Hole.”

“Go down it, and all that,” Tracy said, and now it was Myka’s mind to wander to dark and hidden places, down… and all that.

“Let’s go home and listen to some less-dark jazz, yes?” Myka suggested.

“Billie?”

“Idyllic.”

Less than ideal, however, Myka found after oh… one verse of _All of Me_. All those letters that sat up in her room, folded and tucked into her suitcase pocket, written but never sent to Helena, were never right. She could never find the exact and perfect words to say to her, and there Billie Holiday was singing it softly and soothingly; and Myka’s heart was beating too much and too hard so that it began to break all over again.

~ ~ ~ ~

Jane Austen was revered as one of the most prolific female writers in history, with strong and determined female characters, and yet Myka had always seen them as weak and flippant. It was not that she did not like the turn of phrase, nor the characters themselves, but rather how every action or motive in their movements were of and relating to love. The love of family, of sisters, and then – which was the point in which Myka found her eyes rolling – of the _heart’s desire_. Surely, she would deduce, no woman could be so tragically weak in relation to love of one person. Fools.

And yet, over the last weeks of her ‘holiday,’ Myka had been writing so many different things simply to attempt expelling her own weakness that she realised. She was such a fool. And she was a fool to think herself more capable of resisting such foolishness.

The evening was quiet and turned just as calmly into night, Myka sitting at the dining room table writing whilst the family sat around the table and living room reading, listening to jazz that wasn’t of the disastrously emotional kind – no Miss Holiday. Her parents retired to bed just before ten, but the two Bering sisters remained up, engrossed by their own respective past-times. After silent hunching, leaning far too much over her writing, Myka had to place her pen down and arch her back. She released the strain with a heavy sigh, practically one that begged Tracy to notice.

“Writing something of the dramatic, are we?”

“No. I’m not sure, really. Just a character.”

“What are they like?”

“She’s everything that I am not.”

“I do not like her, then,” Tracy said with conviction, turning her face back to her book. She looked up a moment later to see Myka watching her with a thankful grin, but one that preceded reasoning.

“She is unburdened by heartbreak. She does not find her friends in books but in the real world. She chooses a man who chooses her and only her, and he is kind and normal. She… is kind and normal.”

“Myka, I say this with all the love in my heart but… she sounds void of life.”

“How so?”

“May I… may I read her?” and so Myka relented, not entirely sure with her writing where any character creation would end. She really could keep creating this kind and normal character if it took her the rest of her life to do so; even until, she might hope, she became that kind and normal woman. Almost an hour later, and the wall clock approached midnight Tracy mimicked her sister’s earlier action by leaning out of her hunch and practically unnaturally bending her back in reverse.

“Do you wish she were your sister?” Myka asked in a meek voice, and she really didn’t know just how deep within her broken heart that voice came from, but she also did know that it was the echo of her softened inner voice when Helena was surrounding her. That meek voice was her weak voice.

“I do not, Myka. Never ask me that again, thank you very much.”

“Sorry.”

“I was right, by the way,” Tracy said as she stood and took the pages back to Myka. She placed them down in front of her and pressed her flattened palm to the top, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Myka’s forehead. “She is void of life. She has no spark, Myka, no excitement.”

“Perhaps that is for the best.”

“God, no!”

“Shush,” Myka insisted with a laugh, reminding the both of them of their sleeping parents.

“No, it is not for the best. She isn’t excited about anything, even that _kind and normal guy_. She’s not happy,” Tracy said finitely, sitting down at the chair next to Myka’s at the table. “She mightn’t be wracked with sadness or heartbreak of any kind, and I can see the appeal in that, but the two go hand in hand. Myka,” and the elder Bering dropped her head as she saw the weakness and foolishness of her own desire to be better than either again. “In Chicago… they broke your heart, yes?”

Myka nodded, slowly because she noted so boldly how her sister did not say _he_.

“But when you were together… weren’t you filled with utter and intoxicating happiness?”

“Again I ask, how do you know these feelings?”

“Jazz is a powerful genre of music, Miss Myka. Do not deviate from the question at hand, please.”

“Yes, then. I was entirely happy. In love and happy, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Of course, it matters. It always matters. It’s _all_ that matters,” Tracy whispered with more conviction in her voice than Myka had honestly ever felt in her whole being. “Finding that happiness, whether in great amounts or even the small moments of each day; that is why we live. That is what differentiates between surviving and living. Haven’t your books ever shown you that?”

“No…” Myka answered after a long pause, long enough for tears to well in her eyes. “They didn’t,” and with nervous but the most trusting eyes she had ever looked upon her sister with, she finished, “but she did.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Myka awoke after midnight on what was the middle of any other cold week in her cold bedroom in Colorado Springs; thankfully it was her last for a while. In two days, she would be returning to Chicago where her fireplace kept her apartment cosy. She turned over and buried her face into the warm of her pillow, where thick curls had created heat against a fluffy bed. She took in a deep breath, but knew that such a breath, clear and present, was preceding that of her entire self. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow enough to slip into the unconscious, but she was still awake.

A half hour later at least, she was still awake. Her mind was thinking, and she groaned softly to herself. That mind of hers had been filtering words, phrases that she had hoped would calm her and centre her, edging her closer to sleep. It had not worked as she had hoped. Those words, taunting her to be written even though all of the words her hand had penned over the last weeks were emotional, or bland, the complete opposite of compelling. _Those_ words were stagnant. These words, those newer words were burning every nerve in her head.

Those words swimming in her brain demanded to be read, she felt, and to have them read, they must be written.

Myka sat up and dragged her body from its warm nest, sitting down at her dresser desk by the wall, not sat at with such intention since she was in college, and Sam was still alive. She turned on the subtle lamp that she had once studied beneath until the wee hours, and wrote those words from her brain, expelling them so that she may enjoy at least a few hours of sleep. Once her page was filled and hand began to cramp, she placed her pen down and left the letter to the morning for reading.

Sleep came easily and lasted wholly until sunlight through her window warmed her toes beneath blankets. She could only hear her breath in the morning rise; none of the family had awoken, or if they had, they were not up and about at all, demanding with their heavy steps that she join them. A few more minutes under her belt, she rose quietly and moved to the dresser desk to read.

She put on her glasses, and only rubbed her eyes under the glass once they were on, before straightening her back and holding the letter with conviction between fingertips. The words had more weight than the night before, and there were a few statements of urgency and care that she did not recall having even thought of, and yet there they were, on the page before her in her late-night handwriting.

Myka looked up to her small mirror, holding her gaze and promising herself to return there after reading certain words of her own, wanting to see the emotion in her eyes when they appeared, the smile on her lips when it crept, her frown when she felt attacked by her own opinions of herself. Most sentences began with the word, ‘you’, and she read each aloud; quietly but aloud. On occasion, she would return to the beginning of a sentence and repeat it, a little louder, a little bolder, a little bit more convincingly so that she believed what she wanted herself to.

“You are a whole person,” she repeated. “You are not born from a star that you shared once with Sam, or Pete, or even Helena. You are your own star,” she nodded to herself. “Perhaps, you were a whole star as they were as well, and together you formed a constellation of which the night sky would not be the same without.” She didn’t remember writing that and was slightly impressed of herself.

“You are smart and clever. You mind is your greatest power. You are a bookworm first and a person second – do not forget that passion, that happiness,” she continued. “You may have forgotten the fight, the drive in yourself, and that is never a tragedy nor your fault,” and she looked up to her eyes to see tears. She had forgotten herself in lieu of finding herself, finding Helena. For a moment, she felt awash of safety at having returned back to Colorado Springs. She needed to escape, even from her safe space, her new home, to regain her own sense of self.

She grew near the end of her letter after a while, and after hearing footsteps walking past her door a few times. She read all of her utterances and reminders for herself, but then came to the last, and remembered writing this one. This one that was the weight in her breath and on her shoulders, that she had finally expelled the night before. This one that did not start with ‘you’ and was not a mere reminder, but a bold fact.

“I know that you love Helena, and your heart may love her last, but it loved you first. Remember yourself.”

She breathed in and felt the warm tears run down her cooled cheeks, then looked to her reflection to bring herself back down. She smiled and wiped her tears, before standing and folding up her letter, tucking it into her suitcase pocket settled next to all of her Helena letters.

She remembered herself. In the length of a letter, with words of her own mind and heart, she was no longer so afraid of returning to Chicago in the coming days. She was content with the plan and sure of it, remembering her passion for books and knowledge, and also seeing with clarity the perspective of her own story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't upload a chapter last week. I'm uploading two this week to make up for it. International travel and time difference can really whack you about...!


	20. TWENTY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flip side of the coin.

Helena’s winter was much alike Myka’s in that she cried, and slept, and couldn’t sleep. She read to escape but found words that didn’t sound right in her own voice when reading aloud to herself and knew that instead they would sound magical with the desired intent falling from the lips of the woman spending her winter in Colorado Springs, instead of in the bed beside her. She wanted to take a leaf from Myka’s book, or indeed any person’s book in buying herself some flowers but could only see Myka’s life in lilies and the delicate touch of lips in roses. She found daisies without Myka near them, although her mind betrayed her once they were sitting on her windowsill and they were begging to be smelt by the bookkeeper.

Helena tried to do things for herself to cheer her up but could only find joy in the thought of them being done for her by someone else, by her. She was a _her_ to Myka but found that Myka was a **her** in contrast. Two heads of the same coin, or something like that. So boldly and immediately there even when she was merely eluded to.

Work was where she found a slight amount of solace. She kept busy with things that otherwise were left to other people, and insisted on slow afternoons off before patrons arrived that Mrs Frederic teach her how to pour a beer and concoct a cocktail, any cocktail. She knew how to balance a half dozen drinks on a thin tray and smooth them around a room to be drunk, but to make them was an art. And any art other than writing or words of any kind was what she found herself needing to be distracted and enamoured by.

Other art and cocktails were her only warmth in such a cold and empty period of time.

Certain instances during this cold and empty period, as barren and numbing as the flat ice sheets of the arctic, Helena found that there were peaks to the days; times when a certain happening happened, and she was brought out of the static buzz that her brain was producing to blink and see something new, different, again but with changed eyes.

One time, shortly after new year, a bright and bubbly girl began work at The Warehouse. A head of red curls that bounced with every move she made and eyes that were doe-y; Helena of course noticed her. Well, at least her eyes did; her heart refused to budge from its moping. The girl’s name was Giselle, and she quickly learnt that it was for the best of everyone save embarrassment that she be quiet around the woman so oft perched heavily at the end stool of the bar.

In return to this kind awareness, Helena took a liking to this new light, this peak in her static buzz. Giselle was good with customers and remembered their drinks from one time to the next, being coy and friendly with just the right ones so that her tips were all the more friendly as well. Helena smirked from her end of the bar when those times happened, but when the smile grew to a flutter and the girl had caught wind of what her actions did in entertainment to the mysterious woman, Helena picked herself up from its edging-on-melting rest on the counter, and left.

She took herself home far earlier than she usually did, simply because this sweet temptation was but a poor imitation of the sweetness her mouth actually craved, and she didn’t want to hurt anyone in the fallacy, least of all herself. But time after time, peak after peak, she was there at the bar and Giselle always sent a smile or a cocktail her way, a glistening red cherry bobbing about in it. “Careful,” she’d hear from Mrs Frederic; an echo from months ago, although of course, she’d never listened to Mrs Frederic seriously, for better or worse, and was hardly about to now.

It was a clear night in mid-January when Helena had stayed until about how late she usually would, when temptation was vacant, as were the other stools at the bar, she noted. Giselle was to close the bar for the night; not her first time, but her first time with heavy and wandering eyes on her. Helena stayed on her stool, sipping on her martini, and before too long they were alone. Giselle had all but to lock the door behind her, and they were free to go their separate ways.

But the night was cold, and the walk would be viscous to the face; far too cold and causing a rose to cheeks that would burn later on, and not pleasantly. Artie was waiting, and so as Giselle faintly smiled to Helena, intent on sadly making her own way home in the dark, the mysterious woman took the leap of faith that so many bright red cherries had been asking her to do. “Let me take you home,” a dry English voice said, and so Giselle accepted, her smile as bright as the first time Helena had seen it.

When they pulled up outside the redhead’s apartment building, and Helena stepped out to walk her up safely, a blushing glance was flickered over her shoulder to Helena, and although Artie could not see from his seat, he knew that same glance would be hungrily returned. When the front door to the building closed, both women on the inside side of it, he drove off, knowing that he’d be in fact waiting for many an hour on the brunette’s return.

Giselle was soft and sweet. Her skin was supple, and her curves fit into Helena’s hands delightfully. As nails dragged at her back, Helena winced in pain of more than one kind, her teeth baring to collarbones, her hands grasping at hips, and then down she fell, further into the pits of hell and despair; as if any woman’s body could be hell, but once she had found heaven in Myka’s, no one else’s would compare.

The sensation of hands tugging in her hair, the warmth of inner thigh pressed to her cheek, the juices that dripped to her lips and from them; all were sweet, but for the first time in her life, when the woman beside her was spent and asleep, Helena did not wrap herself around weary curves to sleep herself. She guiltily, regrettably, with an apologetic kiss to a temple that was warm, left.

It was still dark, and she imagined that such shadowy and foggy streets and alleyways would be the perfect place for criminals to lurk, for her battered body to be found the next day without a breath of life in her, and she partly wished for such an outcome to befall her, for then no more pain would be felt. But then she was unlocking her front door and discarding her clothes in a trail that led to her bed, and in she crawled, alive and in pain, before her life returned to static.

Another time, she was behaving stupidly – as was turning habit in her solitude – and the Saturday markets of Lincoln Park found Helena wandering past the flowers and fresh fruits. She’d smiled at Hugo, none the wiser, and taken herself out of the cold soon afterwards to do what little grocery shopping she’d needed to do that weekend anyway. There, the static stopped when her eyes landed on Pete. He spoke first, and she partly wished he had simply seen her and looked away, but of course, he was too civil for that. He was a good person.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Well enough,” she answered after a pained pause. “How are the wedding preparations going?” for of course, Myka had bustled with joy at the news months ago and had told Helena, had practically begun planning it for them on their behalf.

“Slowly. We’re looking at next year now. It’d be too much of a rush, and we can’t afford to make that rush work well.”

“I’d surmised with… Myka as much,” she finished quickly.

“And your Christmas?” he asked, knowing the answer with an awkward head tilt after asking.

“Quiet, as was to be inevitably expected. Yours?”

“Very nice. We spent it with Amanda’s father, who actually asked about you?”

“Oh?”

“I gave him a throw-away answer about being well,” he said with a sad wave of his hand. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Myka called me on Christmas evening.” Pete waited for a response from Helena; a wondering at how the other woman was, but he supposed that she didn’t out of fear that it would only be opening a wound not-yet healed. “She told me then.”

“Then… what?”

“That you’d broken up with her.”

“She only told you _then_?” Helena asked, worry in her voice even though she really told herself not to be so. She could feel the blood seeping from that wound and ought to cover it up and walk away, but now that it was already hurting as it opened, she broke the stiches the rest of the way in one go. “I thought she’d call you the next day.”

“She left for Colorado Springs the next day. She’s still there.”

“Of course, she did. I’m so sorry, Pete.”

“Don’t,” he said. She bowed her head. He was no longer civil. Her wound had opened, and so had his own. “She called me two days afterwards and told me. She had already been breaking in that time.”

“How was she on Christmas?”

“Broken. And I wasn’t there to help her. She was broken and had slipped through my fingers.” There was only so much sorry Helena could offer, and only so much anger Pete could show in the dairy aisle of a corner market. Helena stood and tried to hold his eye as best she could, but when his started to weep, she let hers fall away for the betterment of both of them. “I’m tired,” he said after silence. “I’m mad and tired, and tired of being mad at you.”

“You knew that you would be,” Helena said factually, like it would really help her in that moment to be smart.

“I am mad at you, Wells,” he spat in a whisper, and she began to long for the static again. “Don’t make me other things as well.” What, exactly, he was not sure, and neither was Helena, but both had a wicked vibe that those things would be worse an emotion than simply _mad_.

“Pete,” came a voice from the end of the aisle, and then Amanda appeared. “Oh, hello Miss Wells,” she said, a similar amount of civil anger in her own voice. Helena wanted to turn and run.

“Hello, future Mrs Lattimer,” she said, attempting to ease the situation. It did not work. “I’d best be off.”

“You don’t…” Amanda began. She looked up to Pete who was looking down to her with eyes that practically begged to go home. “Myka said you lived on the other side of town. What are you doing over here?”

A pause to think of an answer that was simple enough and correct enough to explain why, but then Helena said, “being stupid.” With that, she nodded poorly and turned to leave.

She took a few steps, and then, “He… Miss Wells?” She turned to face Pete and saw that tiredness in his reddening eyes. He paused and opened his mouth, and both knew that he was about to say something in relation to Myka, anything to mention Myka, but thought better of it, to which Helena, for one, was thankful. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Mr Lattimer, Miss Clark.”

Not directly after that time, but one time a few days later, while Helena had recognised, but not adjusted her level of stupidity, she returned to the front of The Warehouse and stepped out of an ordinary Chicago city cab. Artie was there, and she had felt like a caught teenager, returning home late one night. “Should I be concerned?” he asked, and she frowned in a guilty smile. “That you are finding the backseat of some other man’s car more comfortable than my own.”

She released a laugh and smiled, stepping forward towards the door before he stepped out in front of her, before looking up to her through his wild eyebrows. “Artie?”

“Or should I be concerned about where that car has been taking you?”

“Oh…”

“H.G?”

“I’ve been very stupid, Arthur.”

“Helena…”

“I feel that I ought to have my attention refocussed to the plan somehow, because I have not been doing anything remotely to do with it in recent months.”

“I know this,” he said with a heavy sigh, turning to open the front door for her.

Life returned to static for a long while, but on occasion, when such buzz grew too loud in its own way, and her temper would flare, Artie would sit her in his backseat and drive her around Chicago, specifically, past Myka’s store to where there were fresh flowers in the windowsill upstairs and the front step of her store swept free of snow. The store was not open yet, for it was not yet near spring, nor even warming out of winter, but either way, she could see that Myka was perhaps home, and for a time, the static dulled to sweet silence.

~ ~ ~ ~

In actuality, Myka was not home at that late point of January, and wouldn’t be until the first week of the next month, and it was Pete who was sweeping the front step and buying flowers from Hugo simply to keep the apartment cheery and loved. He saw her drive past. He saw Artie’s silver Rolls Royce pass and then return a few minutes later, having rounded the block, and then park across and down the road a little. He thought for a short moment, that he saw a sad face at the window of that silver car before it took off again. Whether he saw a face or not, he called Myka that night and told her about the car that had passed on and off for the last couple of weeks. Myka cried.

He wished that he hadn’t told her, but thought it best to have done just the same.

~ ~ ~ ~

The plan was staring Helena in the face when she awoke late January. She had fallen asleep on her couch, the telephone brought off the table it sat on, and was rising and falling with her breath as it rested against her tummy. Had she been using that phone the day before? Yes; an outfit was to be collected in Fort Wayne over in Indiana. She had spotted a dress a few weeks ago, just before the new year, and sent it away to an old acquaintance for altering. She could have done it herself, as her fingers still remembered her years-ago trade of being a seamstress in New York, but the emotional weight of performing such a task would not have faired well for her.

Things were linked in so that the trip to collect the dress would be worthwhile, and so she was to be travelling that day. That day that she awoke to a waking city before the sun even rose with the telephone on her stomach.

Had she been using that phone to call anyone particular in the late hours of the night? Of course not. Even though flowers sat on Myka’s windowsill and she was none the wiser as to who had placed them there, to call or not was a choice not up to her anymore. It had been weeks ago before the heavy snow on Christmas Day. It had been a choice of hers, but once she had made her own, any more in relation to Myka were _up_ to Myka. So, the phone, receiver still snugly on, had sat on her stomach as she slipped further in her seat on the couch, and further into sleep.

Now her neck ached, her back stung as she strained it to return to its normal healthy curvature, and she placed the phone back up with hands that had gripped to it so tightly all night long that they began to grind as she flexed them.

The alarm clock in her own bedroom was ringing. It was faint from where she had slept, but loud enough to still have woken her in the early morn for her long trek ahead. Artie would be around as the sun rose over the rooftops to collect her, and she did not imagine that she would survive the hours-long drive to collect this dress, and to complete the next step of her plan, without at least having a hot and bracing cup of tea.

Breakfast tea was Helena’s friend when she felt most alone in the world. Her mother made a brew when she was growing up that she had long forgotten the taste of, yet still missed. She would do her best, of course, to find it again, even across the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Until then, she had a small little pot of tea leaves that was sold up the street from her at a little store, owned by a little Englishman with a little moustache. It was all she could afford of her past life at times to spend her money on a little bit of tea and keep her sanity.

When sunlight broke through her window, even just a touch, she stood and pulled on her coat, scarf already wrapped around the collar. She was on the street when a bleak looking car, all covered in frost, pulled up in front of her and Artie’s face at the window welcomed her. She slid in beside him and they silently rode the fifteen minutes out of town to Burnham Park where the silver Rolls Royce sat, collecting its own fresh layer of frost.

From there, the real step began, the real road trip, and they allowed themselves to continue in silence for a while until the city landscape outside the window changed to just unrecognisable enough. Artie asked the steps of the day’s plan – or the plan’s day – again, and although she had whispered to them to him at least a half dozen times, Helena laid them all out slowly, with pauses in between so that she may turn to Artie and see his short and singular nod of understanding agreement.

Arrive in Fort Wayne. Nod.

Helena would be dropped off a block from the seamstress. Nod.

The dress would be collected, and she would walk to the end of the street and buy a cup of tea or coffee if need be and read the morning paper. Nod.

Artie would arrive and meet her as if old friends, and offer to mind her dress – looping it over atop his own clothes bag – while she popped down the street for a moment. Nod.

Artie would stand when the silver Rolls Royce drove by, and hop into the back seat where he would swap the contents of the clothes bags. Nod.

They would park up the street from a brownstone apartment building, and Helena would go to the front door, but not knock. Nod.

A man was to pass by her and sit on the steps while he rolled a cigarette and when he fumbled, Helena would place down her purse and offer to help. Nod.

Artie would drive by a moment later after the man walked off now smoking, and Helena would hop into the back seat of the car, her purse a little heavier. Nod.

Nathaniel MacPherson was having lunch with his family that Monday, and would return to his bar just after half-past-two, where he would see Helena sitting at the bar going over the day’s newspaper; Chicago’s newspaper. He would be none the wiser to her day trip interstate, nor that her purse had gained weight before returning, and was lighter still again as it sat beside her at the bar. “Hello, darling,” she cooed when hearing the man approach, accepting a casual cheek kiss a moment later.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Just had a bite to eat actually. Late lunch, as it were, but only because I had a late breakfast. You?”

“Lunch with the girls was nice, but I much need the company of a _woman_ now,” he responded with a smirk, intent on being self-inviting and insinuating. Helena played the part, but found his lust sickening, to which she was glad that she had indeed not just had a bite to eat. Lies upon lies, but she could do it easily behind the hooded glare of her eyes, and the world would not argue with her. Well, not all the world.

Myka would now know. Myka would know how to read her now. Myka would see her lies now, and beckon her to open her eyes more clearly, more brightly, so that she may read the truths buried deep within such lies.

~ ~ ~ ~

Later that night when she was in the cold comfort of her own apartment, arrangements and plans for the day done with, she all but need relax and enjoy what of her day she had left. In lieu of Myka’s store, she found herself at The Warehouse more often, which Mrs Frederic was happy about for more reasons than one, but even the priciest scotch behind the bar did not have the same bite at her heart as the cheaper kind, helped along with the dry of a cigarette in candle light.

A few on her small kitchen counter, flickering in a dance with their reflection in the window, and a lone one on the table in front of Helena. She sat at a chair, pulled out and turning towards the window, her legs crossed as she began to slouch – but did not let herself go completely, for she could practically hear her mother’s voice in her ear even years later after not hearing it, telling her to straighten up and to take up less space. She was to be a lady, she remembered as she sloppily poured another glass, her ice cubes not yet melted.

What had she become, then, she wondered, if not a lady. She still had the ground-level etiquette and education of a lady of England, but she deduced that she had since spoken her mind too much on too many an occasion to be the kind of lady her mother wanted her to be. She was a woman, and a powerful lady, but she was not… that. Whatever that was. Helena only knew that she wasn’t it.

A lady would not have run away from home at the age of eighteen. A lady would not have bought passage on a ship to America that was anything less than an ocean liner. At least her mother could be happy that she didn’t have to show a bit of skin to obtain a fair price. She need only have beaten the captain in a game of chess. Too easy, really. No one could beat her.

Until she arrived in New York and was in need of employment, waitressing to begin with – a lady would never, of course – and then by chance and luck, as a seamstress. She was but twenty-two when she had met Caturanga, a man of about sixty who complimented Helena’s young daughter’s dress when his own granddaughter spotted it first.

Which – to side track, she noted with a smirk before throwing her head back with the last mouthful of scotch – a lady would not do, for Helena had a daughter, but no husband. She had a daughter who obviously had a father, and yet Helena was bashfully unsure as to whom it was. She was a free woman, rather trying to not be a lady as much as she could for a time, until it landed her in a situation where the maturity of a lady was sorely in need.

Caturanga noted the dress with great enthusiasm, and when Helena admitted that it was not store bought (she couldn’t afford that) and that she had made it with her own two hands and one needle, she was practically hired on the spot in a bleak inner-city park in Brooklyn.

The candles reminded her of those times; times when she would be up late whilst Christina, her love and light, slept in the double bed in the next room, and she was mending this dress, or altering this suit jacket. Work did not end at work if it meant that Christina might have her own little bed one day. Times when Christina was minded by a friend, and Helena continued her work _at_ work, and Caturanga would interrupt her so that they may play chess. That is when she would lose. In candlelight with bloodied fingers and a confused furrow to her brow.

Helena pulled much a similar face in her apartment as she poured another scotch, forgetting now of any supper that she was supposed to have before bed. Scotch would be supper and sustain her until morn.

A lady, however, would not throw any sort of tantrum at continuously losing to the man who was her boss and mentor. For beyond stitching techniques, and his constant appreciation for her knack to the mechanical side of things – fixing the sewing machines or even the til when they broke down – those chess games were times for discussion, for serious contemplation of the world and their places in it.

“But I cannot simply cheat, sir,” she would protest.

“I did not say that you should,” Caturanga would retort. “I simply said that you should ‘change the rules.’” She still did not quite know to what extent that piece of advice meant, but always tried to apply it to whatever battle she was in. Perhaps, that was why she thought that she could still fight with fire in her plan, and also play sweet and devoted lover to Myka. She did not like the idea that it had to be either or, but then again, perhaps her choice of rules to change so that she may attempt to gain both, were the wrong rules entirely.

She downed the scotch again, and miscalculated how much was still left in the glass, the last few drops trickling down her chin as they did not fit between her lips.

Or maybe she had been reading the rules, or the entire battle wrong the whole time. And by reading the rules incorrectly, she did not know how to fight. It was not simply the plan or Myka. The plan against Myka or Myka against the plan. The plan wasn’t even the plan. The plan was Christina.

Myka. Christina. The fight. “Oh, alcohol, my dear friend,” she hushed between numbing lips. She could read the rules so very clearly all of a sudden. Helena had never felt so impassioned before in her life to get it all. To get that damn plan done, to win that battle, and to win Myka back. “I want you back,” she whispered, and as quickly as her mind had imagined Myka, it changed to see Christina instead. “My baby…”

Another scotch poured – last one, she told herself – and she stood to cross the room. Her box of records sat on the floor even though she really should shelve them, but could never find the time nor the motivation, and so they continued to sit – just as they had been since she moved in – in a brown cardboard box with her name scrawled across the side. She fingered through the cases, and found the record she wanted to listen to. It was Billie Holiday. She’d found the record a few years earlier at a market…

“The one I sold Alice at,” she told Billie’s face on the cover. “The one where I almost met Myka,” she laughed, and stopped. “It wasn’t even antique. It was just some boy selling records that I supposed he had bought previously, but now I wonder if he’d stolen them… you could be a hot record, Miss Holiday,” she spoke to it again, sliding out the vinyl and placing it down to the platter of her player’s turntable. She brought the arm over and placed it at the very edge, the very beginning.

Her chair creaked a little as she slumped back into it and laughed out a breath at how incredibly un-lady like it was for her to have done so. Another scotch ready, another sip taken, and another cigarette pulled out of the pack and dangled between her lips. She looked over the table and patted down her bodice in search of the lighter, but found that she had misplaced it, and couldn’t be bothered to remember where.

As the gentle piano began, Helena slid the candle over to her and tilted her head to the side to position the tip of her cigarette into the candle’s flame. “You burn me,” she muttered as she sat back up, puffing out smoke.

_I’ll be seeing you…_ and her mind returned to Christina, where she saw her at the park that they frequented, the café, the carousel, the trees they’d hide behind and chase each other around, much to the detest of other, more ladylike mothers present. She didn’t care. She never did. All Helena cared about when she was with Christina, was Christina and the perfection of her little giggle.

She sniffled in as she took another drag, reaching her hand up to take the cigarette and tap it into the ashtray. It dangled from her fingertips, and she saw Christina dancing in the candle’s reflection in the window. Her nose burned as tears were held at bay, but it would not last. It never did. Tears over Christina, and tears over Myka; she could not find solace from her emotions this winter.

_I’ll be seeing you…_ and whilst the lyrics transitioned, Helena heard the first verse again instead in her haze. The old familiar places… that small café… the park across the way… well, now as Helena sniffled again, all she could see was Myka. The song was about Myka. _I’ll always think of you that way… I’ll find you in the morning sun…_

Helena stood up and put her cigarette out, downing the scotch again but knowing her mouth’s capacity this time. She _could_ only think of Myka now. She wouldn’t see her. And with every sunrise she saw for the rest of her life, she would forever be trying to find Myka in the bed beside her, only to open her eyes and see nothing. Not Myka, not Christina, no one. Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is a sad coin, evidently.
> 
> I hope this has kept you all happy and made up for last week's absent chapter. Let me know what you think or how you are feeling about our girls x


	21. TWENTY-ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Myka could not ignore returning to Chicago forever. She had hidden away for long enough, and so now she needed to go home. Whether Helena would cross her path her not, that was something that she couldn't worry about, because if she did, she would never heal.

The days were still cold when Myka returned to Chicago, but she was filled with a warmth that had long been absent from its source and her core. That source was her own driving fire. Books had warmed her for so long, giving her skin gentle holds and heat that would warm her to the core, but only temporarily. Helena had offered a heat alike that too, but without a burning heat from her own self, borne in herself and from her own desires, any fire she was to find in anything else would be short-lived.

She now stepped in her front door and was thinking forward to her plans for the store that may hope to help The Knockbox and every person in her circle that was like her; every person like her in her street circle, city circle, one day maybe the world circle. That character she had written over her winter break; the memory of her characteristics that were barely a hum in excitement, somehow excited Myka even more to write characters that were unlike the pair of them. Not like herself so that she was still learning and discovering, still wandering, but not like that other girl who was void of really anything.

The last few months had been an adventure, she found in the small curve of her lips as she smiled softly to herself in her bathroom mirror. It had been different to crawl inside herself and to be met in there by someone else, someone new. But at the end of the day, she did not really want to live there. The sole attention – in a way – was nice and intoxicating, however there was more to her life than just her. There were her friends and family, and those of her friends that were family and could be. There were poker games to beat Steve at and Sunday roasts to impress Amanda and Pete’s stomach with, songs never heard of before to hear fall achingly from Claudia’s lips to the cool of a microphone. There was more to her life than Helena had shown to her.

She was thankful, and would keep that openness and freeing exposure of herself close to her heart as a treasure, but it was wrong of her to think that Helena was everything to her and that without her she was lost, to her and everyone else who tried to find her. She had to come back.

She had come back.

Once everything was unpacked from her small travel case and she had changed from the stiff suit to a more Myka style – slacks and a sweater – she headed downstairs to phone Pete and tell him as much. She had come back. The sigh in his voice before asking if she wanted to come over for dinner was reassuring and reminding to her, and so she countered the offer to instead invite him out for dinner. Amanda would survive a night without him, and Myka knew that both she and her best friend needed to sit and talk with only each other for some good long moments, unworried by the increasing price of a phone call.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she whispered after their long conversation at a bustling restaurant in the mall.

“I changed them every week,” he said, biting at the straw that stood tall out of his bottle of coca-cola.

“You didn’t have to, Pete. I wasn’t there,” she said with a little laugh, amused at how his biting was proving unsuccessful; the straw kept spinning around and away.

Finally, he found the straw and took a long sip, settling in the pause before speaking again, softly. “She doesn’t know that…”

“Oh, Pete,” she scalded, shaking her head, but not really angry at all. She was saddened at the fact, but not mad. They had gotten along at a time, Pete and Helena, and now that everything had happened, it seemed so apparent to her that Pete really didn’t want to forgive the Englishwoman as easily as Myka might do later on. She hoped that there would be a later on, and that that pit in her stomach that seemed to echo of Helena would be filled again, Helena would appear back into her life again, but she really didn’t know. She didn’t know much at all.

What she did know was that she still had her people and her work, her books and her flowers, and to focus on what she did know and have would be the important and right things to focus on.

Still, while she had her Saturday mornings free to go and replace her flowers, her hand still wanted to be held as did her body as she woke up. Her brain knew that Helena wasn’t going to be there, but her body didn’t seem to. Inviting Pete and Amanda around for Sunday roast seemed like the logical first step to take in changing her market days. Sunday morning, Hugo would be at a different market in the streets by the mall instead of the park, and he would be happy just the same to see her again, looking forward to showing her each of the new blooms that he had as spring approached.

At those markets she would buy her fresh vegetables in preparation for dinner that night, and would be able to tell Hugo as much if he asked her why the change. Instead he didn’t ask when she saw him first. He smiled and waved his excited little shake, before turning from her as she reached his station and turned back with a small bouquet of violets. “Oh, Hugo,” she said with a soft blush. It was good to be back.

“Do you like them?”

“They’re gorgeous,” she said, taking them from his outstretched grasp and bringing them to her nose to smell.

“I think your friend Miss Wells would like them,” and her smile behind the bouquet faltered.

“Oh?”

“I must admit, I imagined that you would be taken with my roses, as usual, or even the early growth of tulips I’ve potted. I had hoped your delightful companion would… accompany you and she would be besotted with the violets.” Myka was stunned for a moment, for she did indeed find her eye taken by those glorious tulips, but she was frozen in the realisation that whilst she was a regular to Hugo, Helena had become as well along the way, and that he had picked up on what sweet blossoms she had been taken with. Before she could think of anything to say, he was speaking again, and she found herself falling back into that Helena-echoing pit of her stomach – or her heart. “Where is your Miss Wells?”

_My Miss Wells…_ “She has… been poorly over the winter,” she grabbed. Any excuse, common or not, would do. And then she noticed that she was still holding the violets. “If you truly believe she would like them…”

“I do, I do!” Hugo practically sang.

“Then I shall take them to her,” she lied. As she was reaching the south end of the markets, violets in hand, and not any bouquet for herself, she berated, she thought that perhaps she could simply keep them for herself. Hugo would not know any different. Nor would Helena or anyone unless she decided to tell them. But she’d know, and among all the things in her life that she did want to know and focus on, to have Helena sitting in her vase on her windowsill, leaning and glowing in the sun and moonlight was something she did not want her brain to linger on.

A little stall by the entrance, with handmade pottery that was painted with a flare of the ancient Grecian style, so she could hardly resist it. It was almost as if she had a plan, the way she was walking through Lincoln Park; as if she knew where she was headed to and what she was going to say when she got there. But she didn’t.

“Stop,” she whispered to herself, and she pulled herself into a café and ordered a cup of tea. Sitting by the fire she stopped, breathed, sipped at her tea and thought for a change. Myka did not know where Helena lived and therefore did not know as to which address she would hail a cab and beckon it take her to. She knew not of where Helena existed beyond that of her own mind and heart. Or The Warehouse. Her tea was consumed, save the rouge tea leaves that settled at the bottom, and was soon enough standing outside the club which had taken her first kiss, her first drunken utterings of attraction and desire, her first thoughts of forever with Helena.

It was not even midday and so, as the establishment was a club, she did not know if it would be open, and yet when she knocked, she heard a moment later the turning of locks and the door handle turning. Her heart sank. Mrs Frederic opened the door and after a moment of contemplation, she smiled softly and keenly, before saying, “Miss Bering; it has been a while. Too long a while, if I speak on behalf of myself and another.”

“Too long,” Myka could only repeat.

“Flowers for me,” Mrs Frederic said and after Myka had bashfully shaken her head, she realised that the words were said in mocking jest; the other, _wiser_ woman knew who the flowers were for. “She’s not here, I’m afraid, but glad of as well.”

“Glad?”

“For your sake, and I suppose for hers. Two souls perhaps destined to meet, but I doubt that the timing was anything other than disastrous.” She leaned against the doorframe and regarded Myka, tilting her head not to either side, but towards her, gazing atop the rim of her glasses. If Myka had been wearing her own, she would have nervously pushed them up her nose, but as she didn’t she raised a hand to her neck and rubbed, twitched her nose, bit her lower lip with worry. “Are you sure you want her to have these?”

“I want her to have everything,” Myka muttered before thinking. “I mean…”

“I understand. I will pass them along to her, but Myka,” she paused, waiting for Myka’s sure eyes to land on hers, not her nervous ones. “Be careful.”

Myka handed over the small vase containing the violets, and turned away with a soft goodbye before the door closed, needing to be the one to walk away from Helena, even if Helena wasn’t there.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was a Friday evening later that week, an arrangement waiting a few blocks over for Helena to attend in little under a half an hour, and yet she was sitting at The Warehouse bar as she spun a lone napkin around by its corners. She was transfixed, and procrastinating. “The flowers do not mean that she will arrive here again, let alone at all,” Mrs Frederic’s voice came quietly from the other end of the bar where she polished glasses. Helena tried her best to ignore her, but then practically a second later, the napkin was being snatched from the pivot of her fingertip.

“I really don’t know how you do that,” she spat, leaning up in her seat and glaring at the other woman.

“Don’t you have a dinner to attend to?”

“I don’t want to go, Irene.”

“But you must. For your… whatever… you must go. You can mope later,” she said with a pat to the Englishwoman’s forearm, and so with a deep breath and a huff, Helena pushed herself off the stool and headed out the door, already in her cocktail dress for the evening.

~ ~ ~ ~

The man was an investor-to-be in Nathaniel’s club. He was unassuming in appearance and could really be in any sort of profession, but Helena’s instinct told her that his bland appearance allowed him to be invisible when needed. Dickinson, and he was smart, choosing instead to focus his attention on Helena instead of the man whose business he was to invest in. Cordial as always, she diverted what conversation she could back to the man who had begun nervously tapping his fingers on her thigh beneath the table.

Nathaniel did not enjoy being second best to Helena Wells. In any other circumstance, she would love any man to be second best to her, but in that circumstance with money and bravado, and with that man who had shown his anger towards her on more than a yelling-match scale, she did not. “The table looks rather bare, I admit, gentleman. Allow me to excuse myself for a moment to gather some refreshments whilst you talk facts and figures.” She stood with an appeasing smirk to the other man, and then pressed a kiss to Nathaniel’s cheek, before leaving the room and ordering the minion outside the door gather such refreshments.

In that time, she breathed and thought about what this night was to be instead of what it was panning out to be. The Dickinson man was far too focussed on Helena to make it seem like he was really there to see Nathaniel MacPherson. He seemed to be focussing on her and almost asking questions of her connection to him, and what her past had done to lead such a “strong-minded and independent woman to such a life.”

“Well, you see Mr Dickinson,” she said as she re-entered the room, balancing hard liquor on the rocks on a board in her hand. “I was but an ordinary waitress at a club the day I met Nathaniel. I thought that it was all I could manage in this world,” she said to prove, spinning the tray down to place on the table. “But Nathaniel saw more. I owe him many a favour in return,” she whispered with a smirk to the Nathaniel, to reassure both men in the room of where her loyalties of sorts lay.

The conversation continued rather dryly for a long while, and Helena turned to counting her ice cubes whenever her attention returned there, in lieu of any numbers that were talked of around the table. Until the details turned unfairly. Dickinson had lowered his investment offer with intent on expecting the same cut of the deal, and while Nathaniel was in a position to accept as he needed a more reputable name to his business than his own, tainted and rather new in that part of the country, Helena found the idea wonting.

“You ask for too much, I find Mr Dickinson, but of course,” she said with a condescending pat to Nathaniel’s thigh. “I am only a woman and here to charm and not arm the situation. However…”

“Helena,” Nathaniel barked softly.

“No, no, do continue. I am interested to see what your arming skills can offer, if only to call me cheap,” Dickinson insisted.

“I do not find you cheap, sir,” she said. “I find you basking in the appearance of such to only buy yourself a better deal. I am sure that you could afford even twice what I believe the already designated investment to be, but why not weasel a way into a better deal for yourself, all the while trying to play it off as fair.”

“What exactly do you mean, Miss Wells?”

“You are attempting to play Nathaniel for desperate because you perceive his position to be just that. But in reality,” she continued with a weighted pause. “He may not know his worth, his power, but I do. He is no fool and I will not allow anyone to make his fall into that pit of belief.” Dickinson sat back in his chair, and Nathaniel turned in his just enough to look upon Helena, but in a moment where she should feel that power, she should feel that control and whipping charm of the room, she felt weak and belittling of herself.

Foolish.

She was standing up in that moment for a man she despised when she could not have even fought herself and won for the woman she loved.

A damn fool.

The deal was settled soon afterwards, and for more than the originally agreed investment, honouring Helena with a bonus offer atop her usual cut for such a land. Nathaniel offered her a weekend trip away in his joy, bottles of champagne as much as her refrigerator could hold in his ecstasy, but she could only smile sweetly and decline.

Eventually he simply offered her more money for her efforts, for her fight and loyalty, to which she imagined spending all that money on enough alcohol to wash that taste from her mouth. Instead, she took herself to a Sunday antiques market at the hall down from her apartment and wandered. It was that same market that she had sold Alice at, almost met Myka at, started her life again at. Now, she was not after any change but perhaps some familiarity and comfort. She saw various little things that were sweet and made her smile, but none that made her heart feel like it was able to offload its pain into the strength of such an object.

And then she rounded the corner from knick-knacks to homewares and décor and saw her. She saw it and smiled, but in it she saw her, and her heart melted. A room divider in three folds, of mahogany and silk partitions. The artwork was floral and the seller described it as a perfect addition to a drawing room or ladies dressing room. Helena knew which lady’s dressing room it would suit most of all, but of course she did not know if it would ever reside there.

Still she bought it, just in case.

~ ~ ~ ~

Fridays were still slow as usual, even after the children had been back at school for just over a month. Exams were not nigh, and so social lives were enjoyed while they could be. “Spring has sprung,” Mrs Calder said to her in jest one afternoon when young love was blooming in the sunshine. Winter had been bitter, and spring now only seemed to blossom hope in Myka’s heart. She had nothing else of love or “blossoming romance” in her life much, but at least she still had her own Pandora’s box; her own remnants of lasting hope.

Pete would still wander in for his glass of milk just like the year before, but Myka had a few more hours under her belt before he would. After the lunch rush – if it could be called that – she received a delivery consisting of one rather large and cumbersome box. As it was slow, and there was no way that she would be able to fit that box as it was – nor be able to lift it there – atop any shelf, she decided instead to unpack it and shelve its contents.

She had ordered a fresh batch of books way back in August of the year before, and knew it would take a long while to compile and send, and so had planned it that was so that she could have an end of winter little sale. Now more than ever, she wanted to have that little sale of her new stock and tediously remaining old stock that would not be bought, so that she could donate some money on the quiet to The Knockbox. The way she saw it, it was her responsibility as a queer business owner to assist others like her, even though her business as such was not one. Maybe one day it would be.

Until then, she had a large box to open and new pages to flick through and smell before she found their new homes. As she stood to reach her desk for a letter opener – anything to slice through the packing tape with – she was glad to have gotten in early and cleared half of her new arrivals shelf beneath the new releases. She had a feeling that not every book in her box would fit on there, even with some careful stacking, because while her stacking would take five minutes to perfect, a rogue and inconsiderate customer could ruin it in five seconds.

“No,” she told herself with conviction, even if it wasn’t how she would prefer it. “One book each.” All extra copies would simply be stacked in amongst the others on their ordinary shelves; poetry, science-fiction, history.

She ripped through the packing tape and pried open the cardboard flaps, blowing into her face the familiar smell of new books and old cardboard, dusty and battered from its travel. In it were classics, books from only a few years before, and down the bottom, making Myka feel like an idiot all over again to have simply forgotten that it was in there at all, H.G Wells’ _The Time Machine_.

“If only…” she whispered. She picked it up, the top copy, and held it to her chest, hands retreating into the wool of her sweater as she felt little, as if she were shrinking to a size like Alice where the words adorning the cover of the book she held were taller than her. The letter opener sat on her thigh and slid off to the floor with a harsh rattle as she stood, carrying that book backwards with a few steps until she reached her desk, and the back of her legs found her chair.

She sat down slowly, softly, barely a noise in the store until she sniffled. “If only, Helena.”

She wished that her own H.G Wells was capable of time travel and they could return to a moment before either had met, and either meet again or pass each other by completely, saving each other any pain. But those wounds, her heart that bled now covered in the rustic red and – funnily enough – slightly art deco styled cover of a novel, beat stronger now because of such pain.

She would never want to be hurt again the way she had felt Helena do so to her, betraying her by lying to her, by not deeming Myka worthy of anything resembling the truth – she didn’t even really know how Christina died, or why Helena had moved to Chicago – but in some tragically beautiful way (bittersweet, Mr Shakespeare would whisper instead), in some bittersweet way, Myka would offer her body and soul to be hurt like that all over again, just to have Helena hold her as she broke.

Right now, in her bookstore, with a sort of Helena clutched to her, she wished that she could just let go and break, but who would be there to collect her pieces? Pete would be in later, but what a rude mess to arrive to. A customer might walk in, and then promptly leave no doubt. Either that, or she would have a stranger fussing over her and she didn’t much need that. No, she would not break. She would be her own person to collect her pieces and hold herself together before it came to that.

She placed _The Time Machine_ down and opened its front cover, feeling the spine ache as she bent it newly. She grabbed a pen, a black ball point biro, and wrote, as if she was going to make her visits to The Warehouse a regular thing if only to leave gifts for Helena telling her that she still loved her. She’d made a choice though. She’d told Helena to leave and not be there when she came back. And she’d done that.

When she returned that night, hours after leaving and her feet were then sore, Helena was not there. She had rudely prepared a script of what she should say if Helena was in fact still there, and had therefore not accounted for an empty apartment in her anger. Anger left as the bottle-green door opened and she made her way upstairs. The apartment _was_ empty, and she wasn’t ready for it to be. She was mad and hurt but did not want to be alone. A fool that she was, she did not call Pete or even Leena or Steve across the street and worried for her, but not for anything like this. Instead, she packed her suitcase and did not sleep much before she left for Colorado Springs the next day.

_If only…_ she wrote in the front cover and closed it as soon as she was sure that the ink had dried. Whether the book ever reached Helena or not, she pushed it to the far side of her desk near the wall, for it was Helena’s just the same.

~ ~ ~ ~

A little before three o’clock, and after a quite random but delightful visit from Mrs Calder (asking about any new books, and if she could request one in that a friend had told her about. She asked Myka how her Christmas had been, and through her wistful attempts at deferring back to the older woman, she’d said it was nice in return. Christmas itself had been rather horrendous, but the following weeks in her family’s company, and now her family back in Chicago as well, had been very nice at times) Myka was finishing her placements of her new books when she thought she saw a silver Rolls Royce drive by. She turned and walked to the window but could not see far up either end of the street, so opened her front door and stood out a bit to glance, but again saw nothing.

As she was turning to head back inside, basking for a few moments to enjoy the rare sunshine on her face, the car turned the corner further up the street and began its slow approach of her. It parked across the road from her, just down from Leena’s, and for a minute did nothing else but sit. Myka’s heart had steadily begun to beat with nerves, and as the car turned off she felt her heart stop completely.

Who was going to step out? She hoped and wished with every groaning fibre of her body that it would be Helena and she would burn with how they would not touch, nor barely hold each other’s gaze. To feel such a burn again would be torture but a drug to savour and melt into. All passion building in her fizzled out of her when she saw the driver’s door open however, and Artie step out. He took off his hat as he crossed the street, smoothing a hand down the top of his shirt and tie. Part of Myka wanted to close the door and lock it before he reached her, because if it wasn’t Helena stepping out of that car, then she didn’t want anyone.

But to hope for Helena at all at this point was a fruitless venture, and perhaps even one utterance of her name through lips that weren’t hers for a change would be a sort of reprieve in another way. She stepped backwards into her store when he reached her, and smiled as she turned to head inside, effectively inviting him to follow her out of the cold. The door closed, the bell chimed, there was silence again, and Myka was looking at _The Time Machine_ on her desk.

“How can I help you, Mr Nielson?”

“I think it is I who should be asking you,” he responded. “How are you, Miss Bering?”

“Not as bad as I was,” she felt bold enough to stay, although her back was still turned to the man. “How…” She took a breath, looking at the book on her desk. Alice had been sitting there once upon a time, before she had been hurting like she was now, like she was now even though her heart was quite enough used to it that it didn’t limit her every day. She turned to Artie. “How is she?”

“Feeling foolish,” and Myka scoffed, a half quirk of her smile in dismay, in contempt almost.

“ _She’s_ feeling foolish? She wasn’t the one who was lied to. I did not make her a fool.”

“You misunderstand me, and her, I feel.”

“How so?” she asked, definitely in contempt.

“You did not make her a fool. Intelligent and independent woman, Miss Helena Wells, did that to herself,” Artie said, a lilt of amusement and disappointment mixed into his tone. He worked for Helena, yes, but he did so think she was insufferable at the best of times. “It was foolish of her to believe that you were not every ounce of happiness to her that she had ever dreamed of.”

After a long moment, Myka breathed out a breathless, “oh.”

Perspective.

“She is not happy, then?” she asked.

“Far from it, I’m afraid, but that was expected. And it’s not anything entirely new,” Artie answered.

“Please do not think that I am thrilled to hear that.”

“I do not. Neither would she.”

Myka shifted on her feet and folded her arms suddenly, needing to braven up and not melt sadly under the fact that while she was miserable, Helena was as well. “I hope that things are progressing well for her, though. That… whatever her plan was, or whatever it was that made it hard for her to fight for me… I hope it hasn’t fallen through and made all of this pain for the both of us unworthy and for nothing.”

“If it is any consolation,” Artie began with a trepidatious smile. “It is progressing well, but I need not have said anything of it to you.”

“I am glad that you have.”

“As am I, and I shall tell H.G as much, as well.”

“You call her H.G?” Myka asked, a little amused at the connection.

“Yes,” Artie answered with a sheepish smile. “As in the novelist.”

“I’m aware.”

“I have no doubt that you are,” he said, gesturing to the store that they were standing in.

“In fact,” Myka said turning to her desk for _The Time Machine_. “I may be a fool in doing this, but…”

“You both are already?” Artie ventured and Myka smiled and nodded with pain laced in her features at the fact.

“This is for her. A gift, I suppose, for no other reason than that while I am still hurt and mad, I also still lo-“

“I understand,” Artie cut in before Myka had to say it; say it and break after he had left for having said it at all. “I will make sure that she gets it, Miss Bering.”

As the man turned to leave, placing his driving cap back on, Myka was struck with a thought. “Was there something else I could do for you? What you came in here for…”

“To tell you of her foolishness,” he answered simply.

“Why?”

He shrugged a little, and let his eyes wander to find an explanation for the feeling that had literally driven him across town to impart that little fact to Myka. “So that you wouldn’t feel so alone in yours.”

With that he left, and Myka did not move from where she stood until Pete bounded in the door.

~ ~ ~ ~

**Early April 1947**

Helena was glad to be still in favour with Nathaniel after she had charmed and practically outwitted Dickinson to secure their deal just over two months ago. He was riding the ride as long as it would take him – or until their new investor realised that what his money was going towards was not at all worth it. Part of Helena was glad to ride in that as well, for it made the end result of her plan all the sweeter if it melded rather keenly into the illusion of someone else’s as well. In most social aspects of her life, of late, she was content, in fact. She was content and enjoying what life was providing her after what long hard years she had put into it for such a provision. That was until, of course, she returned to the quiet and solitude of her apartment late at night.

There was no one there for her. Myka had never been there, of course, but still. There was no one there, or anywhere for her. There was no Myka. There were little parts of her, she supposed, in the vase she kept and the book she received from Artie one afternoon a few weeks back. _The Time Machine_ by H.G Wells, with the inscription, “if only…” on the inside cover. Myka’s handwriting.

Not exactly what she had envisioned from her request for the other woman to write to her, but just the same she was comforted to see her handwriting just for her.

She had not received anything else from Myka, and why would she? There was no reason at all that she should expect anything now from Myka. They were a past to each other, and nothing more. Although, on such late nights with a glass or two of wine in her, and often on nights without any alcohol at all, because the fact was still as crystal clear to her as it would be with the accentuation of alcohol behind it, she knew why Myka had sent those things, and she knew why she hoped for more to come.

They loved each other.

But couldn’t love each other at the same time.

Or could they…

Helena walked into the club – she couldn’t recall the name of it, for they were traipsing through a new one every night since landing such a deal, and it had reached a point where Helena was finding it hard to differentiate the one they were at from the one they were at the night before, or the week before. All she knew was that she was tired.

Helena walked into the club, her arm draped loosely through Nathaniel’s bent one, and she smiled. Pleasant and demure, just as she had to present to the world to be so that everyone remembered that Nathaniel was the mastermind behind landing such great deals and planning such visionary ideas for the city. She was but the pretty face to make the deal easier, slide smoother.

They walked into the club and men were there to shake Nathaniel’s hand, and women were there to wink at Helena for they knew she had a damn good brain. The congratulations and offers to buy the next round of drinks were tedious to her ears by now, and so as soon as they had made their presence known to those who mattered, Helena slipped her arm from her lesser, and positioned herself on a stool not far from him, lest he get suspicious as to why else she would want to be anywhere else.

She sipped on a martini pushed in front of her, and gazed around the room. It was quiet, and she soon saw why that was: the young performer on stage had just finished their set and was packing down their guitar. For such a stylish establishment the performer seemed a little underdressed in their button-up and vest, but no matching blazer to their tapered dress-pants.

She looked about the room again, intent on finding the next performer jostling in their seat to stand and prepare themselves before heading to the stage, when she saw her. She couldn’t be sure that it was her, and she practically feared that it might be, so she dragged her eyes away and back to the stage. The stage where the young performer had locked their guitar case closed and was standing, turning, looking out across the crowd to her friends, and Helena saw that it was Claudia.

Of course, Claudia was more stylish than a simple club.

She followed Claudia’s eyes back to the table where she had seen her, and was sure now that it was her. It was Myka. Her dark curls out and free, bouncing about her shoulders with joyful enthusiasm as Claudia approached the table again. The entire table of friends – Steve, Leena, Pete was there too – were cheering for her and Claudia, Helena could see, was blushing under their praise. Oh, how she wished that they had arrived even a few minutes earlier just to hear one song. And oh, how she wished that she had not been such a fool so that she may have heard that one song from the chair beside Myka, their hands clasped softly beneath the table.

Alas, perhaps it was best that their shared occupancy of the club was not as overlapped as possible. Hopefully, Helena thought, they would all soon be on their way as Claudia had finished, and Myka would have no need to accidentally see or run into her.

She wanted to, of course, but knew that they couldn’t, shouldn’t, as it would be of no benefit to anyone, and would only make their wounds hurt again all the more. She wanted to kiss Myka again, to run into her in the bathroom quite coincidentally and push her up against the stall wall and kiss her, hold her, press their bodies together to try and smother the burning flame in both of them, but she knew. The flame would not be extinguished for them.

Helena turned back to the bar for a sip of her martini, to break her eyes from burning holes in the back of Myka’s gorgeous head, but then she was turning back a moment later, like a moth to a flame. She did this intimate dance with herself a few times over, finding each round more risky as she turned from martini glass to dark curls. Statistically, there was undoubtedly a time where Myka would turn around and see her, but the risk was worth it for just another glance of Myka _there_ in the same room as her.

Another turn and she lingered, having finished her martini and beckoned another, giving her a few extra seconds to bask in the distant image of her love. She was just to turn away, hearing her glass tap down to the bar counter, but one second too late, and Myka, turning to look about the room as Helena had told herself to do many a time in the last few minutes, looked to the bar, and saw her.

Myka’s eyes met Helena’s and for a moment, everything else in the world fell away. Pete laughing fell away. The next musician on stage fell away. The smash of a glass across the room fell away. There was nothing in the world between them for a moment, but of course there was still everything, but even that seemed to fall away. As if the universe knew she needed to stop, however, Nathaniel looped his arm around Helena’s shoulders all of a sudden, and shook her smaller frame against him in a brusque sort of hug. He bent down next and pressed a hard kiss to her cheek, and if she didn’t look up to him a maximum of three seconds after his lips left her, he would start wondering as to why.

So, when his lips left her cheek, Helena found all the energy she could to mouth a pathetic, “I’m sorry,” to eyes across the room that would most likely not be able to see, and then she turned.

When she looked back to where Myka had been a moment later, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skips along a bit more in intervals from now on until the crux of the story, because yes, there are moments of each's lives that need to be seen, but for the most part, we obviously all just want to see them together. Thoughts?


	22. TWENTY-TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised that in the original show, The Warehouse itself was such a character in itself, and so far I have not dipped into her character much at all. So let's start there, shall we?

The Warehouse was a uniquely invisible club. With wonder and charm abound, endless in its capability to be more than that, catering to every which one’s needs and desires, it was the sort of sparkling den that would attract the eyes of many a party-goer, daring to try every flavour the city had to offer. The Knockbox had been discovered by such eyes and desires, yet not all flavours were pleasing to the palette, it seemed, for its painful demise had become such a reality.

Not The Warehouse, though. Almost hidden in a smoky alley behind bakeries and a dry cleaner, where clean shoes would not dare to tread for a mouse was most likely lingering there waiting upon entry to the club just as they may do; The Warehouse had endless wonder, but such wonder for those who were not truly seeking it thankfully ended before the front door was ever reached. The policy among patrons, the practical echoing of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ meant that such was the afforded invisibility of the club. Ears of a person only heard of it when the heart was one that craved its existence.

Helena liked that very much about the safe-haven establishment she frequented. It was for only those whom it was for. Cryptic and vague, it was how it – and in such an instance _it_ was encapsulating of more than just reference to the club – needed to be to survive in the world. It was a successful business, down to the pragmatic direction of the brave soul at the helm of it, daring to own a club for the queer, the outcast, the different and endlessly wonderful. When open, it was never empty, and when closed, it was always dreamed of to be opened, but even Mrs Frederic needed time to rest and enjoy her own company.

Mrs Frederic herself, in the story of the club, was never actually hired. There was simply a day when she was not there, and the next she was; she continued to pop in seemingly out of nowhere and in no time from that day forth. Helena knew her from the very beginning, for her heart was always craving and her ears always listening for a whisper of somewhere, someone, somehow. It was not necessarily an exact written step in her plan to have The Warehouse in her life, but she now found that she would never had made it this far in her plan if the only clubs she was ever aware of where dark and dangerous, with leering eyes and lingering hands.

Clubs that she had worked at in New York, and then Chicago were like that. Men were there and all they wanted was to let inhibitions go and grab onto something else, something more fleshy and more satisfying to conquer than inhibitions could be. Helena hated those clubs. She hated those men and she hated those clubs, for when brought together with the looseness of morals as loose as the ties around their collars, she bitterly fell into the pit of object of entertainment.

Helena hated those clubs and those men, and loved The Warehouse and its variety of people, and how the only hands that fell onto her body in that space were Myka’s because she’d asked her to put them there. She was proud of that. She was proud of many a thing that such endless wonder offered to her heart and the hearts of the lost souls that found it, but ultimately, she was proud that it was not simply a club, but a home.

The Warehouse had a soft ambience and a safe atmosphere, welcoming everyone in with open arms and a compassionate smile, and she was most proud of that.

~ ~ ~ ~

“I can’t believe she didn’t tell me,” Myka said as she threw yet another blouse from her wardrobe to her bed. Her voice barrelled out from behind the doors as it was swallowed in part by the coats that hung in front of her. Pete sat calmly in his chair – _his_ chair, which was beside Amanda’s, which was beside Myka’s, which left the one on the other side of her empty: Helena’s – and watched as the haphazard pile at the foot of Myka’s bed became almost a mountain. “We’ve been going to her gigs for what – over a month now, right?” Myka asked, throwing another blouse after careful yet uncaring consideration. She heard no reply, so stuck her heard around the corner of the wardrobe door. “Right?”

“Right!” Pete spat nervously. It was a fact, not an opinion, so he hadn’t answered. What an idiot, because now it seemed like he hadn’t been listening and in lieu of blouses to throw (because they all had been thrown) Myka threw a lone high heel at him, hitting his crossed ankles. “Ow!”

“You are not listening!”

“I am, Mykes. But you’ve been raging about this for the last two hours and have thrown not only your blouses on the bed, but your sanity out the window!” The matching shoe hit him. “Hey,” he said, stomping as he stood to collect the hurled shoes, and carried them back over to his disastrously frazzled best friend. “I know that you’re in disbelief that Claudia didn’t tell you where her gig is tonight. I know that you are mightily ticked off about it, and that apparently you have no idea what you are to wear, but what I don’t know is why.”

“Why what?”

“Why, why? Why you are so pressed to find something- no, no. The _right_ thing to wear. Why you are mad that she didn’t tell you specifically, which!” he continued in the same breath, seeing Myka open her mouth to protest. “Is a load of horse radish, because why would she? And then why – and this is the big one – _why_ it matters so much at all. Just, why, Mykes?”

She huffed, but not at him, and rather at herself. She took a step towards the bed, and sadly picked up a few crumpled blouses to lay them gently down atop each other so that they need not crease any more, and so that she had a place to sit. She sat in a huff as well. Pete watched and after a moment, with her bowed head, a signature frown and pursed lips, he folded his arms in suspicion.

“What?”

“We’re going to The Warehouse tonight,” Myka finally said.

“Never been there. Is it nice?”

“It’s where Helena…”

“Oh…”

“It’s where we first kissed.”

“Double oh.”

“We went there quite a few times actually, and sometimes we would slip upstairs to the bathroom and lock the door, and…”

“Oh.”

“Or we’d come back here and-“

“Don’t make me use up all my ‘oh’s.”

Myka breathed out a laugh, but still her frown remained and her body was slouched. “The point is, we went there a lot. And she may still go there.”

“A lot,” Pete finished.

“Yeah.”

“I know why.”

“You know why what? Why she goes there?”

“No, I mean… I know why you’re throwing blouses. You’re not angry.”

“I’m not?” Myka asked genuinely, taking her frown to mean that.

“No, Myka,” he said, kneeling down to catch her eyes for she was not going to raise her head to him anytime soon. “You’re in love.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re heartbroken and in love, and so you are throwing blouses. And shoes, evidently,” he tried to joke. She laughed a little bit. He smiled a little bit.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Love doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Yes, you do,” Pete said with a sympathetic hand to her knee.

“Yes, I do. But I also don’t.”

“So maybe a blouse isn’t right for tonight.”

“You think?” she asked credulously, looking to him with that usual jest in her eyes that was saved just for him; her best friend, her sort-of brother, her favourite idiot.

“If she’s there,” and Myka groaned. “ _If she’s there_ ,” he began again, “then you will catch her eye no matter what. Instead, let’s not catch her eye, but steal her eye. You wear those boring brown slacks all the time when we go out, and while you love them… Myka, there are other slacks out there in the world.”

It was after five in the afternoon, and while there were plenty of slacks in plenty of stores near them in that moment, the front doors that opened to them were long locked. “Pete, everywhere is closed.”

“Amanda has a pair of pinstriped pants that she made herself. I have an old blazer that is of a similar pattern and too small for me anymore.”

“And why is that?” Myka asked, making gesture to his stomach in hopes that he would realise – even for a fraction of a second – how much he really did eat.

“My muscles, of course. But either way, it’s huge on Amanda, but your shoulders are broader and you’re taller, so I reckon you could pull it off. That white blouse,” he said, reaching around his slightly-less-slouching friend to grab the garment he spoke of. “Can go underneath and I’ll grab you a tie to wear loosely. I know you’ve got some sort of waist-coat in there somewhere, and some little boots that can go underneath.” He looked around her wardrobe, then the apartment and crossed over to the top of their stairs.

“My ankle boots?” Myka laughed, for she did not ever consider that they would be the final touch to a daringly sexy outfit. Pete crossed back over to her with them, and dropped them down at her feet.

“Mykes,” he began, reaching his hand out which she took, and then pulled her up. “She’s gonna regret ever not telling you anything. Most of all, that she loves you too,” and with a bemused look left on her face, for she swore that Pete hated her past lover, he left.

~ ~ ~ ~

She looked good. She knew that. She knew that if Helena saw her, and they were talking – as in if they had not fought and broken up, had not spent months apart and felt angry and hurt and sad and in love and bleeding; if they were talking – Helena would tell her so. Helena would say something along the lines of, “why, don’t you look dapper, Miss Bering,” and Myka would blush and hear Claudia’s giggle in the background, and then later on – maybe only a few seconds later when attentions had shifted – Helena would sidle up to her and whisper, “and while I do love those clothes on you, you do look simply delicious in absolutely nothing at all.” Claudia wouldn’t hear that one, but she’d see Myka blushing profusely and giggle just the same.

It was true. As well as it was true that she looked good, she also agreed that to Helena she would look better, delicious, simply heavenly absolutely naked, those dapper clothes that partly weren’t even hers would look better on the floor of Helena’s bedroom. She knew this, because she would try – or would have tried, if they were talking – to get in ahead of Helena and say such mischievous and hungry words to her first.

The, “that’s a gorgeous dress, Helena. I’d love to take it off you,” line swam through her brain all the time in the back of the cab to Claudia’s apartment. Helena would no doubt say something to one-up Myka’s flirtations; something like, “I bought this dress just so that you could take it off me.” Myka blushed as Claudia climbed into the car beside her, her guitar wedged somehow in the trunk of the cab.

“You’re blushing,” she stated, and Myka tried to wipe the look of her face and shift the focus. She jostled her tie around her neck a little to breathe (even though it was already loose) but at least Claudia latched onto that. “Damn, Bering, you are looking tasty.”

“I beg your pardon?” Myka asked, turning so much in her seat that she felt a little car sick all of a sudden.

“Sorry,” Claudia laughed. “Joshua’s friend said it the other night, and I had to. I’m sorry.”

“Not to you, I hope,” Myka said in urgent defence of her young friend.

“Not to me. You know me, Myka. I would have walloped him one if he had.”

“Good girl,” Myka said turning back around in her seat to nudge her shoulder to Claudia’s, her mind no longer on words she or Helena might have said to each other in another timeline if they had met at a different time, a different place, under a different circumstance. If only…

~ ~ ~ ~

The remnants of her smile lingered on her lips, from what Pete said going on a minute ago. She stared ahead at the warm liquid in her glass, how the ice had melted, Claudia’s laugh in the background, and she breathed out her own attempt at a laugh to join her. All she heard, however, clearly and with detail, was the hum of the box wireless radio in the corner of the room. It played as per usual when the artist from stage was taking a rest, and while Myka had been listening too intently to young Claudia when she was strumming her guitar, somehow her ears, her heart, simply wanted to continue being lost in music rather than conversation.

Pete was joked out and Steve was making fun of him, Claudia was perhaps a drink too deep for her age, her voice growing louder as she spoke and laughed. It was amusing to Myka, but that hum was hypnotising. She had seen a man approach the wireless just before the last song had finished, and so she assumed that that low crackle after a finished song would transition in a moment to a new song. The new intro began, a little guitar, a little brass, the soft drumming, the lyrics.

_The crowd sees me out dancing, carefree and romancing._

Perhaps that was her, Myka thought.

_Happy with my someone new._

Not really anyone _new_ romantically, but new friends nonetheless, so she nodded a little to herself, eyes glazing over and melting just like those ice cubes.

_I’m laughing on the outside, crying on the inside..._

Yes.

_‘Cause I’m still in love with you._

Painfully accurate. The breath in her chest collapsed out of her, her lips parting, her shoulders shuddering slightly, her eyes growing warm. She blinked to rid them of the thin tears that appeared. Her nose tingled, and she twitched it. She took a sharp breath in, careful not to make any noise, looking about to Pete and Steve, still in conversational jest, and Claudia just bouncing between the two and giggling. Leena was silently watching Claudia grow more drunk, with her own sort of drunk swimming in her eyes.

Myka supposed that she may as well be slouching in her chair, melting into her heart, reaching out to flick peanuts across the table with the only bitterness she could muster. Instead, she was straight-backed, feet together, hands clasped tightly in her lap as her knuckles whitened in her grip. Her eyes shifted about the table, while her head was screaming. A line of the song played; _ever since our break-up, make believe is all I do_ , and Myka wondered in her mind how many books she had pushed herself through, reading each page until her eyes shut with exhaustion at night, and then again for every dull, quiet moment of her days since. When she was writing in Colorado, she’d take a break to read, and when the characters would all blend together and a dark-haired woman in a long coat appeared, she’d slam the book shut and write about someone so unlike Helena that it was as if she were attempting to scrub her mind of the woman who took her heart with the black ball point she wrote with.

Foolish how she felt, out with friends to enjoy her night, but having a drink that softened her defences just enough for her to jump the fence and stay lost in her misery, she really couldn’t bother to try moving out of it. The song played and played, and when it finished, it continued to play in the rhythmic and returning hum before the next tune. She imagined herself trying to coax her lost self back from the misery, back to the world in which Claudia was waving her arms about too wildly, and Steve was trying to calm her. The whiskey in her system failed her and the figure in her head and heart holding out its hand to her blurred into Helena, the Helena she met months ago, who removed her gloves to take books from her, to tease her fingertips across Myka’s.

Myka felt her brows furrow slightly, pitifully, and she couldn’t drag herself from it, from the image now of her wading through shadows and emotions that threatened to drown her, only to reach out and take that soft hand, that ungloved hand.

Almost as if the universe was trying to help her, save her from this little awoken nightmare, Claudia’s wild arms swung and knocked the glass with no more ice cubes fair off the table and into Myka’s lap. “Oh, Myka!” she gasped, and all Myka could do was silently lift her white hands from the puddle strewn across her – Amanda’s – slacks, and breathe slowly at it, at the world, at herself. “I am so sorry!”

“No, no, Claudia,” she assured, feeling that image in her head fade, for better or worse. “It’s quite alright,” and as the young woman continued to mumble her apologies, Myka stood. She felt the whiskey drip from her lap and onto the top of her boot, and in her drunken haze, the sole drop felt like the prick of a knife. She ran her hand kindly over the top of remorseful Claudia’s head, and excused herself to the bathroom to tidy herself up. She rounded the edges of tables and happy customers at them, all laughing genuinely with empty glasses that still held their ice cubes, not forgotten, and headed to the staircase where the sign for the restrooms pointed. She looked up at it, uncurling her nervous fist to grip the rail just as firmly.

Helena had been ahead of her the last time she’d looked up those stairs. Helena had been with her the last time. Helena had loved her freely the last time. And with every step ascending, Myka thought about each moment that Helena was with her where she wasn’t anymore. She reached the top and looked over the club, feeling shroud in dim lighting and the shadows of pillars like she had been when Helena had lured her up the first time. “Meet me upstairs,” Myka muttered to herself. She could hear her voice better up there, even though it was in but a whisper. The rabble of downstairs did not reach her to drown it out. “Meet me up here again,” she continued. “And kiss me.”

She turned into the darkness, brows furrowing more as she felt her voice break into a whimper under her breath. Fingers now only loosely resting on the railing, she let her hand fall off as she turned and hurried down the hallway to the ladies’ room, pushing the door open and being drowned by the light, just as soft, but from more sources. A lamp beside each sink and an overhead light, she vaguely remembered the space from her first visit with Helena. She hadn’t ever really looked at it before.

It was different than her memories made it out to be, she noted. Colder, more detailed, and she knew that this was because she was free to notice the tile décor, the edging of the mirror, and not get lost in the flutter of eyelashes, or tiny teeth in a bright and nervous grin, lipstick slightly smudged off which Myka could feel on her own lips instead. Now, Myka had all of her lipstick on her own lips alone, and the only eyelashes that held her focus were her own, holding stars upon them before she blinked them away.

Another drip to her boots, and Myka remembered why she was alone in the cold room to begin with. She reached into her pocket, grasping a handkerchief to run under the tap thrice before dabbing away at the alcohol that sat upon her pinstripes. A touch had soaked in, but she would be washing the whole outfit after the night was through just the same. She only needed to fix herself up enough for the cab ride home, she was sure. Claudia had had enough, and Pete was tired; she could tell. The night was winding down for them, and with those lyrics still playing in her ears, in the low and lonely beating of her heart, Myka was ready to return to her cold apartment and warm her face with tears before sleep.

She looked into the mirror once her outfit was presentable again, and used the not-alcohol-stained corner of her kerchief to dab under her eyes for the edges of running mascara. She never wore it, and when she did, she cried. _Ah, the irony_ , she chuckled to herself. To wear the make-up in attempts to make believe she was happy and anew, only to have it washed away, dispelling her façade.

Blazer tugged down smartly, with browned and blackened handkerchief inside her breast pocket, she shifted her waist coat and tie, and pushed her shoulders back, pulling to the right without meaning to. She sniffled and thought that she could hear footsteps down the hall outside the door, and assumed that Claudia was approaching to retrieve her, telling her how Pete was “joked out and sleepy.” The door swung open, and Myka smiled to Claudia, only that it wasn’t Claudia, and she wondered if her whispers atop the mezzanine must have been heard.

“Helena,” she gasped, shocked but cursing herself at the same time. _I’m not playing with fire, am I?_ she recalled asking Pete as they sat alone in the cab on their way to collect Claudia earlier in the evening. _I’m not risking seeing her there simply because I know that she goes there on occasion?_ Pete had said nothing, only a shrug that could mean either answer and that he also didn’t necessarily want to give one. But then again, Myka did know that while she hadn’t necessarily been meaning to, nor _not_ meaning to, her eyes were scanning every ounce of the room for Helena’s face, the back of her head, her ears waiting for her laugh. She had never seen her, nor heard her, nor even heard her name mentioned by someone else. It was as if Helena no longer existed in the space, and so Myka had been foolish enough to wander thinking that she would not bump into her.

And now she, Helena, stood in front of her in a long emerald dress; long sleeves, form-fitting around her hips, so much so that Myka had to close her eyes lest she be tempted to stare. “I saw you come upstairs,” she heard that accent say, and oh, how she had missed it. She fluttered her eyes open nervously, looking up into eyes that seemed to only ever glow for her.

“Did you hear me as well?”

“Hear you?”

Myka swallowed thickly, dry lips parting again and her breath burning them even more. “Meet me upstairs,” she began, her voice betraying that tone in which those words were first whispered into her ear so long ago.

“Meet me so that I can kiss you,” Helena finished, remembering all too well what she had commanded of her shy companion on that first visit to a loud and boisterous club.

“Kiss me,” Myka whispered, and it was such a mistake to allow the small amount of alcohol in her system to get carried away. She closed her eyes, and while her focus was all in her head, thoughts and memories swimming about frantically, her brain had forgotten what to do with her legs, and they grew weak. She stumbled forward, opening her eyes just in time, but Helena had already reached out those perfect hands to catch her, to hold her. She tried to hold herself back, but she simply couldn’t be bothered anymore. Her brain got control of her legs, but she betrayed herself and took the final step towards the other woman willingly, encroaching on her space, feeling hands slide coarsely across her blazer.

“Myka, are you alright?” Helena asked, genuinely concerned for the smeared mascara and paler skinned woman in front of her. She’d broken Myka’s heart, and how foolish it was of her to forget that Myka _was_ her heart. It didn’t simply live on her sleeve, but in every cell of her body, and so she was a broken whole as a result of it.

“Kiss me,” Myka repeated, not a whisper this time. Lilted, and cracking, but not a whisper. “Let me go and walk away right this instant,” she said, forcefully with her weary eyes opening with a gentle scowl. “Or kiss me and don’t let me go.”

The Englishwoman could not deny that it was all that she wanted, but she knew that just because she wanted it, and that Myka wanted it, that did not mean that it could be. MacPherson was still domineering and every move she made could risk her life, her plan most of all, and she could not risk even the risk. But MacPherson was not there.

She did as Myka told her, but with more intention and give in her actions than had been instructed of her. She dropped her hands from Myka’s arms, feeling the other woman sigh against her lips heavily, but swept those fingertips to the hem of Myka’s jacket, to the lone button that held it closed, and slipped it undone. She was met with the tight of a waistcoat, and as lips pressed firmly to lips, Helena moaned against them. Such a moan, Myka could understand, meant almost an undeniable attraction at Myka’s fashion choice for the evening.

_She likes my waistcoat!_ Myka found her lips smiling into Helena’s parting ones, and showed her equal appreciation by gripping firmly, protectively, possessively if only for that one kiss, on the Englishwoman’s hips. Helena’s hands in return having unbuttoned the waistcoat, slid against soft, _thin_ cotton to Myka’s back, her hands pulling and her fingertips digging, feeling Myka crumble and fall into her. The same height, they were, with Myka’s sensible-as-always shoes, and Helena’s statements – more effective than cheap mascara at presenting a façade.

She felt Myka’s hands grasp tightly at her body and helplessly to her arms, her own short nails scratching at the satin of her dress, the lace detailing at her shoulders threatening to give way should Myka try harder to mark her. She would not mind, either way, and she felt as if she should be angry at herself for that but was not at all caring about her own clothes in that instant. Instead she could feel the back of Myka’s shirt pull from the waist of her pants if she scrunched her hands into fists against the bookkeeper’s back. The light tickle it must have caused from Myka’s lower back made her whimper, her head lolling back and out of the kiss for a moment.

Her lips barely pursed before meeting Helena’s again, too preoccupied with simply meeting at all. The warmth of the other woman’s lips against hers was intoxicating, and she imagined ahead of the end how their mixed lipsticks would look; the light peach and warm red, a sunset upon her lips to get lost in. Myka grasped more determinedly at Helena’s shoulders, the kiss renewing her with energy, passion, life, and she stood more purposefully, relying on her legs as she slid her hands up and across shoulders to tangle in long flowing hair.

Oh, how she had missed the thick tresses, and how her nimble fingers seemed to entwine themselves like they had been doing it every day of her life. She opened her mouth to Helena, feeling not tongue like she had supposed, or hoped for, but rather hungry teeth pressing forward to bite, not nibble. She moaned under the pinch, begging for a bruise later, and for the subtle taste of blood now. She scratched at Helena’s neck, her scalp, tilting her head so that she could bite in return, daring to drag that sunset down the other woman’s chin.

She bent her knees, balancing in her sensible shoes better than Helena seemed to be, and pressed the sun to her neck, her teeth crashing onto soft skin like waves to the shore, and then eroding, leaving red lines and heat. She brought her mouth back up to Helena’s, teasing by barely resting their lips together. Their breaths mingled, and although it was cold in the room, it was not cold enough for frost to hang in between them as it had in winter when they met for lunch, walked the park, woke up in each other’s arms.

She opened her eyes a touch to look at the woman clinging to her as she clung as well and felt the urge to tell her; the burn in her lungs and the pounding in her chest to whisper her love, but she could hear footsteps again, and those sounded more of the drunk and stumbling Claudia variety than Helena’s had been. She slowly slipped her fingers out from dark hair, hands sliding to shoulders and then arms again, and the Englishwoman could feel the reverse of what was happening.

“Myka,” she whispered, but then there was air between them, space and then an arm’s length. She had tried to maintain her grasp on the other woman, but cotton was harder to grip to than tweed, and so she slipped away. Again.

“Someone’s coming,” and it was so soft and sorrowful that Helena did not need to hear the actual words of apology to hear it. She turned to the mirror, and ran her thumb along the edge of her bottom lip, pushing the sunset below the horizon.

The door swung open and Claudia stumbled in, muttering how Pete was tired and joked-out, and Helena made eyes at Myka in the mirror as if to say, “surely not!” Myka smiled in return, a memory of inside jokes between them, but then it faltered, and she turned without even a goodbye blink to the other woman, sliding her hand into Claudia’s to be led downstairs. She passed behind Helena, taking in one last breath of the apples and fudge that lingered. She ran her hand deftly across the other woman’s back, and then to her arm that hung emptily, her hand, those fingers, and then nothing at all and she was back to the dim hallway.

As she began to descend the stairs, trying to keep up with Claudia, she could have sworn that she heard the smash of a mirror, but lest she fall, she did not turn back. She told herself the same as she had months ago when she had been descending her own stairs leaving Helena upstairs to see herself out: do not turn back.

~ ~ ~ ~

Sitting in her bed, she breathed in methodically and with intent. Intent to continue living. She thought that if she stopped telling her lungs to take air in, her diaphragm to push it out, her nose to breathe in air again, her chest to collapse, she would certainly die. The covers folded neatly over her lap, crisp and white, as if she were sitting in a hospital ward. She ran the fingertip of her left middle finger deftly down then length of her right fingers. Wrist, down the bones under skin, knuckles, finger, nail, next finger. She kept repeating the action, until the echoes of smashing mirrors drowned out everything else and she stopped, closing her eyes tightly and forgetting to breathe.

She held her own hand, wishing it was the bloodied and cut hand of someone else, soothing her own pain as she might soothe theirs.

~ ~ ~ ~

Sitting on a stool, she breathed in methodically, erratically though it still was, with intent. Intent to push through the pain. She thought that if she stopped telling her brain to focus on her breaths instead of the insistent throbbing in her knuckles, shooting down to her fingertips and up to her wrist, she would certainly die. A napkin folded neatly over her lap, once crisp and white, now scattered with drops of blood that even the first one couldn’t hold, as if she were waiting for a divine meal. She ran the fingertip of her left middle finger deftly down the length of her right fingers, through and over torn edges of skin. Wrist, down the bones under the skin, knuckles and what felt like the smooth of bone, finger, nail laced with dried blood, next finger. She kept repeating the action until Mrs Frederic returned with another napkin wrapped around a bag of ice and swatted her wrist away. Helena closed her eyes tightly when she placed the napkin to her cuts, the harsh cold making each throb more violent somehow, and forgot how to breathe.

She wished that she had someone’s hand to hold, someone’s hand to hold hers to soothe the pain that they both felt, but of course, if she had her hand to hold, she would not have punched a damn mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see Helena as a character who would, and could, rather get herself out of a situation with intellect and wit, her brain was after all, incredibly powerful. And so I feel that who would be the one person such intellectual rationality would not work on? Herself. Helena could talk herself out of any situation. But she could not beat her own brain. Maybe brute aggression could.
> 
> I had been thinking of this moment, this stumbling upon each other for soooo long; to finally write it was such a euphoric feeling. It did my heart good, even if it isn't necessarily a "good" heart feeling in actuality. And of course I wanted to be all romantic and shiz at the end with Helena feeling pain but Myka knowing it was there too, and thus feeling it in her own way too.


	23. TWENTY-THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day, and the life and emotions of it for Myka...

**8am**

A cool morning breeze graced Myka’s flushed skin as she lay in bed, a tangle of limbs and sheets, and her own removed and discarded button-up pyjama shirt somewhere in the mix. It had been a warm night in Chicago and she wondered as she lay how she’d survived the night in such heavy clothes and then when such a heavy body was clinging to her, kissing her, holding her as she collapsed in Myka’s arms. She ought to have melted.

Heaven knows, she was already burning.

Her eyes were open and not focussing on anything in particular, still going over the events of the night before. Still feeling the sensations of the night before. Still seeing the sunrise and sunset of the night before. The ceiling in her apartment was an off-white colour, and she could easily see in her blurred vision the stippling of paint covering the cracks in the plaster that had formed over the years. The new and the old paint were not of the same colours unfortunately, or maybe they were and the old had simply changed with time. Either way, soft white paint padded over a pale but warm paint, and all Myka could see in it was the powdery make-up rubbing off of Helena’s skin as they moved against each other and left bolder colours in wake.

Arching her back against the sheets that stuck, Myka groaned as she stretched, flopping her body back down in its exhaustion still remaining – for few hours of sleep were obtained; her mind whirring and replaying, repeating, returning even once her eyes had closed and she had fallen asleep – and she brought her hand to her bare stomach. She slid it up to her chest, pressing the heel of her hand to the hard of her sternum between the subtle rise of her breasts. Across her hand moved, still pressing down firmly to her chest as she petulantly held her breath against it, and she cupped her left breast, then back across to her right, and back again.

Nothing in her body changed much, no reaction at having touched herself somewhat intimately, Helena filling her brain, and still she decided to bring her other hand to her stomach and down to the band of her pants instead of up to her chest. Fingertips toyed at the edge of material, and she recalled how Helena’s had done the very same many a time, and how she had not since. She felt almost obligated to do so now, to slip beneath the band, to feel herself, to tease and tempt herself, so that at least in her mind her last for _something_ would not be Helena. Her last kiss, her last good night’s sleep, her last truly happy memory, her last sensation of physical and emotional liberation and freedom to be simply and wholly herself, but not her last orgasm.

She arched her back again, rolled her hips in the action as well, and squeezed at her breast as she did. A step, and another, all that had lead, and hopefully would lead, to Helena not being her last; it really ought not to be hard. And yet, she found her body felt tense, and there was not an ounce of pleasure daring to bubble over in her entire body. She went to frown and realised that she already was, and supposing that her body had already given up on the fact long before she had tried to change it, she removed her hand from her pants and pressed both palms to the mattress beside her.

Helena was to be her last for another while yet, perhaps forever.

~ ~ ~ ~

**9am**

Her bed was unmade. It was Saturday and she wanted to betray her inner feeling of stagnant gruff by trying to go through the motions of what a quite leisurely day would seem like. Myka sat at the foot of her bed with knee tucked up to her chin, clipping her toenails in the morning sunshine. She had laid in bed for a while after not making Helena her last, and tried to think of something else. She’d even bounded out of bed quite aggressively and grabbed a book, any book, a book that she had not seen Helena with, and tried to read, but to obviously no avail.

She would still not go to the market that day, but she needed to do some grocery shopping just the same, and her toes had been niggling at her in her shoes all week. Trim, breakfast, and then off down the street to get the basics; mainly milk. Unable to sleep the night before and only think behind closed eyelids, Myka had gotten up and had a cup of tea. It went cold before she finished it, accidentally forgetting it even though it was sitting snugly in her hands on the table as she leaned across it and rested her chin on outstretched arm. She made another and finished that in a more timely fashion, and went to bed.

Late to sleep and then early to rise for she indeed had two rather large mug-fuls of tea in her, her body was tired but her mind was not despite not stopping since she had stepped foot out of The Warehouse bathroom. Breakfast was toast and another mug of tea using the last of her milk, and then she was off into town in comfortable capri pants and a short-sleeved polo, her hair pulled into a lazy ponytail at the nape of her neck. What she wore did not matter to her, nor should it have to anyone else, but as she stood and looked at herself in the mirror before leaving, she could only think that Helena would say she looked sweet.

It didn’t matter, only that it always did which made trying to get over Helena, to try and make her Myka’s ‘not last’ a very difficult task to complete. As she walked to the store, she supposed again that such a task became all the more difficult with every passing day that it was not completed. It was June, and so it was just over five months since Helena had ended it with her again, since she had told Helena to not be there when she came back – each having made a decision and so while each thought that it was the other’s first move to make, they stood still on the same line together, yet not together at all – and therefore perhaps the task would never be completed.

Perhaps Helena was truly forever to be her last.

~ ~ ~ ~

**10am**

The grocery store was rather busy, and Myka was reminded as to why she preferred to do her grocery shopping on weekdays, but for a while as the clutter and noise of other people’s voices seemed too loud, it helped to drown out the loud whispering echo of Helena’s words to her the night before. There were few, but Myka would have been thrilled with only a murmur, a noise from Helena, if only to just hear her voice again.

She had only a small bag with her of foods to last her again til her usual weekly shop two days from then, and as it had only been a short venture, she decided to stay away from her home where there were memories of Helena everywhere and knocked on Steve and Leena’s door instead. Their store was closed for the day, the little sign on that door said, due to sudden illness. That meant a hangover, Myka knew, and had perhaps prepared for as much with the small bag of pastries in her shop bag from the bakery beside the store.

Leena came down and opened the door, a soft but joyous welcome to her friend who had looked nothing short of miserable the night before. “Is Steve not well?” Myka asked with a small smirk on her face.

“We’re all pretty rotten, I’m afraid,” Leena whispered again. Her eyes were heavy but her smile was bright.

“ _All_?” Myka asked, and Leena’s smile grew all the wider.

“Claudia stayed the night.” With giggles and gentle hands, Leena welcomed Myka in through the door and into a hug. “Nothing happened, but we did wake up in a sort of embrace, so that’s something I suppose!”

“That’s wonderful, Leena,” Myka said with a grin that rivalled the other woman’s. She reached into her bag then and pulled out the pastries, handing them over. “I don’t want to wake anyone, but these are for you _all_ when you are feeling peckish.” She prepared to leave, intent on letting Leena return to such an embrace that she had once felt home in, but then her wrist was being touched gently in hesitation and so she stopped and looked back.

“Myka?”

“Yes?” she asked.

“Are you alright? I mean only that… last night you seemed…”

“What?”

“You seemed almost as you were when Helena was in your life, but at the same time… you were sort of fractured in a way like you were when you returned from Colorado. I’m not sure what that means…”

“Neither do I,” Myka said with a soft laugh, not sure how she could seem like such polar opposites in emotion at the same time.

“But I hope that you are feeling less torn this morning, and if you’re not, I will make sure to save you one,” Leena said raising the bag of pastries slightly for emphasis. “You know, should you want to talk about it.”

“Thank you,” Myka said and smiled softly and quickly. She turned again, but looked back this time to kind eyes as she opened the door. “Say good morning to Claudia for me,” she said finally, enjoying the bursting smile that met her words, and then she was gone. She crossed the street and rubbed at her tired eyes the whole way, only pausing to look both ways before crossing and then again when her foot bumped into a box on her front step.

She squinted down at it, her eyes feeling dry and stinging, but saw the white box with brown string and a small note written on the cardboard in the top corner. She couldn’t read it from where she stood looking down at it, nor when she’d picked it up to hold in her arm as her bag hung from her elbow and she searched for her key in her pocket with the other hand. She whined a little when her fingers refused to grab the key it could feel, but when she had and she had unlocked the door, she strode upstairs by two steps at a time and placed the box on her kitchen table, thinking again as she had done since the late hours of last night, of Helena.

~ ~ ~ ~

**11am**

When she was in the bathroom, she had splashed her face with cold water and tried to liven up her eyes all the while knowing that nothing but sleep was to fix them today. They were better though, and she could see the box more clearly as she stood over it. It was very unassuming and could really be from anyone, but she knew that it wasn’t. She had seen Helena for the first time in months the night before and was not one to usually receive random deliveries on her weekends. Helena had only ever written her two things, and only one of them consisted of letters, but of course Myka had read that over and over, memorising each letter and how each had a unique curl to it, a unique slant and inclination to it.

On the box was written, “instead of ‘if only’ might we wonder ‘what if’?”

_If only_ was reminiscent, of the past and the things that were lost. _What if_ was optimistic, of the future and things that could be hoped for.

Myka undid the string bow and discarded the lid, then peeled back the soft tissue paper and saw bright red. A satin dress of bright, bold red. She did not touch it at first, only stared at it and breathed in as her eyes grew to sting again, not from lack of sleep this time, but from tears.

Many a movie Myka had seen growing up, or even when she’d sat awkwardly on the foot of her sister’s bed, knee tucked up under her chin seeing the dazzle in Tracy’s eyes at receiving a present, showed the lucky lady opening a box, or simply looking at a dress before holding it up slowly and delicately between her fingers to admire. Lead actresses would spout some line alike, “oh, it’s gorgeous! Simply gorgeous!” or Tracy would utter a less-elegant, but equally emphatic, “wowzers…” but never Myka.

Sweet, bookworm Myka only ever enacted an unwrapping like that with a book, never a dress from an admirer, a lover, a someone. Now that the opportunity had presented itself to her, for she was standing over a red dress that offered little to the imagination in what it would and would not cover of her skin, she was a little awestruck.

And so, she stepped away. She stepped backwards and away, not quite ready to pull the dress up or even out of the box, and certainly not on. She had not seen Helena for months, had been angry and sad and mournful of her for months, and then last night they reconnected, for want of a better word, and now this. It was too soon, or too much, or just too anything. Myka’s head hurt and she hadn’t much in her stomach, and did know that there was a pastry across the street for her if she wanted, or a whole bakery of them up the road if one would not suffice, and so she stepped backwards and away from her apartment entirely.

Leena opened the door again, and welcomed her in before saying anything, perhaps seeing that same expression or general mood in Myka’s as just under an hour before, but heightened somehow, as if the mood had a name and there was now an exclamation mark at the end. Of course, the mood did have a name and it was now, “Helena!” written all over her face.

The last pastry was not saved, and was instead already bitten into by one Miss Claudia “I can handle my alcohol” Donovan, and so instead Myka settled for comfort alone in lieu of comfort food.

~ ~ ~ ~

**12pm**

Leena made a stew for lunch which everyone was glad for, and after Claudia had practically drunken hers from her bowl, Leena suggested that the two girls go for a walk, much to the chagrin of Claudia. However, Leena promised to link arms with her if she would, and so they skipped out the door together, arm in arm at about half past the hour leaving a sombre Myka and a suspicious Steve to themselves.

Half past the hour, and Myka noted that it was about two times that long since she’d picked up the package at her door. She was deep in thought about it, wondering to herself how long she would let it sit on her kitchen table before she needed the space and would have to move it, because she was still certainly not going to put it on yet, when Steve tapped her shoulder and sat beside her on the couch. “Talk to me, Bering.”

“I don’t know, Jinks. It’s not anything terribly earth-shattering.”

“I don’t know, Bering. I think you think your Miss Wells _was_ pretty earth-shattering,” he countered and leaned back in the couch, shoulder to shoulder with her. She nudged into him slightly, in attempts at assertive dismissal of his statement, but lingered against him just the same. “Look, Myka. Did something happen last night? Or today, because you seem… far away.”

“Where am I?”

He paused and thought, trying to figure it out beyond what Leena’s reading of her seemed to explain, and settled on what he supposed was part of the truth, and the best answer that he could give. “Last year.” Myka looked up to him with a sharp turn of her head, an expression that wasn’t angry at his observation, but worried. “Am I right?”

“I don’t want to be there.”

“Where do you want to be?”

“I’m not sure. Here, now. Or maybe a few months from now hoping that it’ll be different.”

“Different how?” Steve asked.

“I saw her last night. We kissed last night and it was…”

“As if…?”

“No… no ‘as if’ anything. It was just what it was, and I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking of it, I kept _feeling_ it.”

“The kiss?”

“Home,” Myka spat. “I kept feeling safe, but I’m not. And then this morning, she sent me a dress.”

“A dress? To wear?”

“Yes, Steve, I know you are a man, but women do wear dresses sometimes,” Myka joked.

“So do guys,” he said with a smile. Myka smiled too. “Was there a note at all?”

“Sort of… but I also haven’t really opened it.” At Steve’s unsure quirk of his head, she went on. “I opened the box, as in I took the lid off, but then that’s it. I haven’t touched it.”

“Myka,” he laughed. “Might I suggest something,” because it obviously seemed so clear to him, but opaque to her that she needed help. When she nodded, he said, “go back to your apartment and put on that dress, and go home.”

~ ~ ~ ~

**1pm**

Myka listened in part to Steve’s suggestion and did go back to her apartment, and at least picked the dress up and out of the box, enjoying as much as she would let herself how it would slip off her arm if she draped it over. A mischievous smirk curled upon her lips at the thought of it sliding off not just her arm, but her shoulders, her back, her hips, and down to her feet that stood in Helena’s bedroom.

She dropped the thought as she dropped her smile and tossed it back over her arm, spying the note folded at the bottom of the box. She picked it up and opened it to read Helena’s writing.

_Artie will be by your apartment at 8. He will wait ten minutes for you and not a second longer, but I do hope that he doesn’t have to wait that long before you sit in the backseat xx your Helena_.

~ ~ ~ ~

**2pm**

She had tried the dress on for about half an hour, and liked just as much as it felt across her arm how it felt along her entire body. She did look rather attractive in it, even without trying, but of course Helena would say that she never had to try. She just was. Whether she was or not, she could not wear her usual bras underneath it if she did decide to step out of her apartment at eight o’clock that night. “Hypothetically,” she said to herself as she dropped the dress from her shoulders to hips to feet and removed her bra. She would only look for a different, more appropriate bra if she was hypothetically going to go.

She was undecided yet and would not commit to anything despite how many times her mind said, “it would feel better if Helena was the one nudging it off,” each time she dropped the dress to the floor.

In the end, although completely hypothetical, Myka had pulled out her entire underwear drawer to find a good bra for the dress. All the ones at the front were perfect for under blouses or full-coverage sorts of garments, but none that she had were right for under a thin-strapped, low-backed red satin dress. At the rate this was going, she supposed that she would not go out whether she decided to or not, simply because she would prefer not to go out bra-less.

Dropping it one last time, and thinking again that it would be a better sensation if Helena was there doing it for her, Myka draped the dress across the foot of her bed and redressed before shoving her drawer back into its slot, unsuccessful in finding a bra. She rubbed at her eyes as she stood, and then yawned and thought that perhaps a few minutes of closing her eyes would help her situation in some way, and although that idea didn’t make sense to her in her tiredness, nor would it when she had awoken, she still lay across the top of her bed.

She pulled down a pillow and crawled under the edges of her covers that were still unmade, and faced the dress. She frowned at it and then smiled, then frowned again and finally closed her eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~

**3pm**

Myka rolled to her back and felt the cool of shade blow a breeze in through her window, and so she arose to close it. Looking at the clock and seeing that it was less than hour since she’d fallen asleep and the dress was still there, and she was still frowning at it, she got back into bed and closed her eyes again.

~ ~ ~ ~

**4pm**

When the clock ticked over to the next hour, Myka rolled herself over and out of bed as well. As she rolled, however, she saw the dress and groaned, remembering the things she had to let occupy her thoughts. What to wear under it, if she was going to wear it at all, and what to say when Artie had dropped her off to… The Warehouse, she assumed, but now that the thought had blossomed in her mind, she began to wonder if she was going there at all. Maybe she wouldn’t. “Great,” she nodded to herself with a forced smile. Another thing to find her heart beating abnormally over. It was growing tiresome, she noted, to have her heart begin racing at the slightest of issues of late.

Ignoring the dress and rather seeing the tie she had worn and stained the night before hooked over the wardrobe door handle, Myka got up and pulled on her ankle boots, intent on heading down to the store. She slumped into her chair and held the phone to her ear, and as the dial tone rang on, she shifted in her seat and pulled her knee up to her chin and chewed on her lip.

“Hello?”

“Where did you get the idea to dress me like that last night, Pete?”

“Hi, how are you?”

“Perplexed. You?”

“My nose is tired,” Pete answered factually.

“Why?”

“Amanda has had me smelling flowers all day, Mykes, and… I can’t smell any of them. Or they all smell the same, I’m not sure.”

“I’m so sorry for you, Pete. It’s a tragedy that your wife wants to include you in your own wedding.”

“Shut up,” he said, and Myka laughed. “And I actually got the idea from someone else.”

“Who?” Myka asked, and Pete was glad that she could not see his expression because he didn’t really think she’d ask, but of course she would. He paused, and then his pause became hesitation, and Myka hummed.

“Pete…”

He sighed heavily, and barrelled on in one breath. “When you were in Colorado Springs, I went Saturday shopping with Amanda to the market and then the store and we, or rather, I ran into… Helena.” He held his breath. Myka did not speak. “And she was dressed sort of like that, and I thought…. Heck, I thought, you would catch her eye either way, but what better way to catch it with like… oomph, than to have her style worn by the woman she loves.”

“Pete,” Myka began with a following pause of her own, and Pete braced himself at the end of the line for whatever articulate and verbal assault was coming his way, holding the phone away from his ear a little. “You’ve said that twice now. How do you know she loves me? Did she tell you when you ran into each other?”

“No.”

“Then how?”

“Mykes… it’s just like I knew before you told me.”

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew! You’re my best friend, and I can see things in your face even when your face is showing nothing. It was the same as her, and how in that entire conversation that we had in the store, she did not mention you or ask about you-“

“Then how do you know?!”

“It was on her face! And I hate that I can read it like I read yours, but her mouth always seemed to be on the… Manda, what’s the word you said the other day?” he called away from the phone. “On the edge?”

“Precipice,” came the answer.

“She was always on the precipice of saying your name. And also, why the heck would she be so far across town if she wasn’t hoping to run into you, or see something that you’d seen together, or be where you’ve been. Why would she if she didn’t love you?”

The line was quiet for a long while, and Pete was nervous as to if Myka was still there at all because he couldn’t even hear her breathe. Just as he was about to call out for her, she spoke. “Amanda’s there?”

“Y-yeah. You wanna talk to her?” Pete asked.

“Yes, please.”

The phone changed hands and Amanda’s sure and sweet voice rang through. “You okay, Myka?”

“We’ll see… what would you wear underneath a backless satin dress?”

“Honestly?”

“If you please.”

“Nothing at all,” Amanda said, and the silence returned for a moment, but ended soon enough.

“Can I call you tomorrow to tell you how I am?”

“Pete and I will be waiting.”

“Thank you,” Myka whispered.

“Myka,” Amanda said, and Myka hummed softly. “Have a good night, and call if you need.”

“Love you.”

“We love you too.”

~ ~ ~ ~

**5pm**

She should eat something, she thought, for her stomach was rumbling and never did stay sustained long on Leena’s delicious stew. It was not her usual dinner time, and so she grabbed a banana and turned on her heel to head back to bed as she peeled it.

The dress still lay draped across her bed, its curves and ripples catching light and dancing as she sat down on the mattress near it. With a purposeful bite to her banana, she wished for a moment that she had chosen an apple to eat, if only for the crunch that would have resonated more with the emotions she felt. Perhaps, she thought as she chewed – because she really shouldn’t talk aloud to herself if her mouth was full of food – the banana was indicative of how her emotions should be, could be.

What was she thinking about? Somewhere in the midst of her conversation with Pete and Amanda she had decided that she would go to wherever she was to go that evening in the back of Artie’s silver Rolls Royce, so that was not it. With another bite of her banana, Myka brought her hand up to twirl fingers in her hair, her arm pressing along the length of her chest. She could feel her bra, and felt her heart begin to race. That was what she was thinking about.

Sam had once spent the night at the Bering household, sleeping on the floor of Myka’s bedroom because the living room did not keep much heat overnight and Mrs Bering was worried that the poor boy would freeze. They had barely even spent much of a night time together at all. Movies finished at the local cinema no later than eight o’clock and then maybe an hour was spent at the diner before Sam walked her home. But that night, with Sam sleeping not next to her, but near to her, Myka was nervous and unsure. To cut the memory short in a simple fact, she had worn a bra to sleep that night. She had worn a bra on many a night when Sam had stayed over since then, even once they had graduated and begun college.

She supposed that she would have eventually not worn a bra once they had begun having sex, but then that never happened. Helena was the only person that she had ever been braless around, she realised as she finished her banana. It was not a terribly ground-breaking revelation, but it was something nonetheless. It was something that only made her all the more nervous to wear a _satin_ dress out in public around a great many people for the first time in her life.

“But…” she began as she stood off the bed and crossed to the bin in the kitchen. The pause lingered, as was the theme for her speech that day, and she only spoke again when returning to the bed, as if she were saving her words for the dress to hear. “But, Helena will be there.”

Once so nervous about the prospect of seeing the other woman again to talk, the thought now calmed her if only to settle her nerves about a thing so frivolous. _Focus on that_ , she told herself, not wanting for a chance any words said out loud to be ruined or in vain. She stood and ran her hand along the length of the dress, before striding off towards the bathroom and running a much-needed hot bath.

~ ~ ~ ~

**6pm**

When her hands were wrinkly, Myka brought her arms out of the tub and rested her elbows on the sides of it. She let out a heavy breath and looked around her, not quite sure what to be feeling and why whatever she was feeling of late was always so heavy. When would she feel light again? When would she feel an emotion and while it was real, it wasn’t detrimental and worth writing some poetry anthology about.

Thoughts such as those plagued her for a while until her hands dried out and while still wrinkly, weren’t aching in it. She dipped them back in and tried to ignore the cold of the water, curling herself up into more of a ball so that her shoulders were underneath the surface. A little bit more of a slide, and her chin touched the water as well. She kept wriggling slowly by little increments until the lobes of her ears were wet, then her lips, her cheeks, her nose, and with her last breath out, Myka felt tears well in her eyes and she closed her eyes, taking her head under the water.

~ ~ ~ ~

**7pm**

The dress sat waiting on her bed still, and a glass of wine at the table, waiting for her to consume, but only once her eyes were dry. When Myka had taken enough deep breaths for her chest to begin to ache, she pushed herself up and drank the whole glass of wine before dishing up dinner and eating it like the responsible adult that she was.

When she had eaten, and had another glass of wine because at least she tried to be a responsible adult, she went through the remaining tasks of her evening as slowly as she could, trying to put off the inevitable. That being, putting on the dress without a bra. The thought unnerved her still and it was painfully and possibly pointless to think that it would all be worthwhile as long as Helena was there at the end of the evening to take it off her.

“I just want to be home again,” she mumbled and then the tears were back, and she finally cried, her bathroom sink growing filled with toothpaste and tears until the sun set and her apartment grew dim. Then she cleaned up and put the dress on, for she could not go home if she did not go at all.

~ ~ ~ ~

**8pm**

It was seven past the hour and Myka practically ran down the stairs as well as she could in heels, bursting through the door in a rush of nerves and perfume. Artie was there, standing by the door and smiling kindly, understandingly as if he knew that she would be late by a little; as if she had seen him arrive and had one final last debate with herself before deciding. He opened the door for her and she slid inside with pleasantries, and soon they were on their way.

“I’m sorry that I was late,” she puffed, still overwhelmed by the energy it took to not twist an ankle.

“I had expected you would be, if we are talking?” Artie ventured, looking at her through the rear view mirror.

“We are talking, Artie,” she said, and they shared a smile. “And why did you think I would be late?”

“I had no doubt that you would not only debate the idea of going this evening, but that you would debate many a time and most likely debate one last time before finally coming down stairs,” Artie answered articulately, having obviously thought out the answer. Expectedly.

“Oh, really?” Myka asked with a smile of delight. She most definitely did do all of that, so she couldn’t argue. “But I wasn’t exactly late because of another inner debate.” At the look of inquisitiveness Artie shot her, she sighed and decided without debate to tell him why. “I was trying to decide if I should wear my hair up or out. I was decided on out, but the night is warm already, and so I thought up. But then it wouldn’t sit properly and you’d already arrived, but I didn’t want it to be messy, and…”

Artie chuckled to himself, and Myka was out of breath, and so she took in some fresh warm air and joined him. “May I say something, Miss Bering? If it’s not too forward?”

“Myka, and yes.”

“She will think you the most beautiful person in the room regardless of your hairstyle.”

“Thank you, Artie.”

“But, she did tell me how she very much favoured your French twist.”

“She likes my neck,” Myka said.

“She told me that too.”

~ ~ ~ ~

**8.22pm**

Artie had dropped her off and she was walking through the front doors from heat to the same heat, but thicker, denser. Body warmth created a blanket of sweat over her brow as she stepped in, and was glad to have not grabbed a jacket, but rather a light cardigan to wear atop her dress. It really didn’t go with her outfit, and she quickly handed it off to the door man as she entered, but she did not feel comfortable yet with her bra-less state.

She had had a few wines, but had also had a food of substance that prevented her from feeling too loose, and so she made a bee-line for the bar as soon as she could see it through the crowds. Mrs Frederic was there and when Myka went to ask for a glass of her usual whiskey, a champagne flute was placed in front of her and filled. Her eyes went wide, and then the other woman spoke. “I’ve been instructed to keep this filled until she arrives. Something about needing an aid in the evening.”

“B-“

“Don’t ask me why, but I am inclined to listen and do what I can for Helena at this point.”

“May I ask why?” Myka ventured, tucking her chin down in concern.

“She’s not the best I’ve ever known, but she’s good, and not a bad person.”

“I know that.”

“So you will allow me to refill your glass when I can,” Mrs Frederic stated in lieu of a question. “Helena also said that it should be champagne.”

“Are we celebrating?”

“Not yet, she said,” was the answer given to Myka, and such an answer of weight prompted her to take her first large gulp of the impossibly fizzing liquid, and then there Mrs Frederic was to refill her glass a moment later.

Myka was surprised a long while later that she could still read the time on her little wrist watch for she had most likely consumed an entire bottle of champagne and did not feel at all about to stop. With every swish open of the door, she spun and looked, only to see that Helena was still not in the stool beside her. The glass was perspiring in her hand as she felt the edge of her hairline do so as well, the low dip of her back, the backs of her knees. The heat was nothing in comparison to a drunken infused worry. With every flutter of her heart at the door opening, at a hand touching her shoulder only to turn and see that it was a polite person letting her be known of their presence as they leaned across the bar to get Mrs Frederic’s attention, she took another drink and could foresee the hangover she would have in the morning.

In the morning. So many hours away, and still she did not know how many more she would have to endure before Helena was there. Beside her. Maybe she would be in the morning.

~ ~ ~ ~

**8.53pm**

It was nearing an hour after she had been collected by Artie, and her head was hurting already; the night could not be like this. She could not let herself sit filled with dread and champagne, and not end up seeing Helena. It would not be worth it. She could not stay and would not do it to herself. Mrs Frederic was busied down the other end of the bar, and there was less than a mouthful left in her glass, so she told herself that she would down it, stand and leave before Helena came or Mrs Frederic cemented her to the stool with another filled glass of alcohol.

As if she knew Myka’s train of thought, as if she had planned to wait until Myka could not anymore, and the result would be perfect, instantly gratifying and somewhat meant to be, Helena appeared at the mezzanine. The room lulled in conversation, but picked up a second later; barely a noticeable shift to anyone, but Myka was not just anyone, and she was waiting for a moment that told her things were happening for the evening. She looked to the door, to the other end of the bar where Mrs Frederic was still busied, and then finally to the mezzanine.

Helena was wearing a simple dress of light blue with little sleeves over her shoulders and a v-neck. It was a dress that Myka would see in any department store and as the other woman began to descend the stairs, and their eyes met, she wondered why Helena had designed for her to wear such an elegant and exorbitant dress, whilst she wore something close to a house-dress. “Myka…” she said as she lifted herself to the stool beside the bemused bookkeeper.

“What are you wearing?”

“A dress, I had thought,” Helena answered as she looked down at herself.

“But why am I wearing _this_ dress, and you’re wearing one like _that_?”

“I needn’t be anything tonight but part of the crowd,” Helena stated calmly, as if such a dress was not what she wanted to wear, but what she needed to wear.

“H-“ Myka began, but then the crowd really did drop in conversational chatter. A man was pushing through others to get to a table, pulled out a chair and stood upon it. Myka watched him stand, but then felt Helena grab at her wrist softly to turn it over and read her watch. Myka read it too. Six minutes past nine. Why did that matter?

The man waved his hands about for the last remaining whispers to die out, for all attention to be on him and the words he would say. When Myka could hear nothing but the steady intake of air from Helena, the man spoke, and what he spoke showed her why ‘six minutes past nine’ mattered: “Nathaniel MacPherson has been shot dead!”

Her eyes shot to Helena, who let out that breath calmly and with wide eyes, mouth agape and yet, a sparkle in each and every one of her features. She was presenting shock, just as she was presenting as one of the crowd, and while she supposed that everyone was to believe her, Myka did not. She knew Helena now, and so she did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? xx


	24. TWENTY-FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the absent weeks!!! Coming back from overseas travels means lots of catching up time with the girlfriend :) And I do have an alarm for chapter updates, but I'm also a forgetful person who needs more than one alarm. Thus, two chapters for you!!

“Follow me, please,” and if Helena hadn’t said _please_ then Myka may have protested, but she had done and so she did not. Instead, she looked about the room as Helena stood, playing the part of shocked and bewildered, needing air and space from the crowd that roared and went back to their weekend-ly festivities. She followed as Helena slipped through the crowd and past the end of the bar, her hand sliding across it just for a moment; a moment where Mrs Frederic paused in her job to look at both women, to nod and continue.

Myka was confused, she would not deny it, and while she had been a little confused in comparison all day, now was of another level where she could barely rely on any fact as truth apart from that Nathaniel MacPherson was dead and that Helena was dishonestly sad about it. “Helena,” she said when they reached the mezzanine, but the other woman only turned and looked back as she walked. Myka was inclined to stop, perpetually like a child until given answers, and Helena must have seen this as she reached out her hand, not to hold, but to invite further down the hall than they had ever ventured together. It was at that moment that Myka saw not simply Helena’s hand, but the reddening of it.

She recalled in her memories of the night before; the ghastly sound of a mirror smashing, and saw in the hand outstretched to her the truth of that sound and what had caused it. She wanted to reach out and hold it, cradle and tend to it as she studied the dark wounds that riddled quiet skin like a road map, but the memory of the night before and the reality of the moment then and there collided. Myka still stood and looked at the hand wishing to heal it with love and yet could not separate her emotions from themselves as well as she could not Helena’s hand from her body; she stood and remembered that that hand was attached to a woman who was keeping a secret that Myka did not know and needed to so that her confused frown would vanish and no longer ache her face.

Residing to the fact that she would not know what was happening unless she followed until the point that Helena stopped, Myka finally obliged. They had passed the restrooms and turned a corner, and all that lit the way was a lamp on the wall. One lamp for such a long hallway, and come the end of it, Helena vanished into the shadows. Myka followed still, although not being able to see where she was going very well, but in a sudden as quick as a blink, a door handle was unlocking and turning, and she was bathed in light again.

The light of an office, and she supposed that it was indeed a better place to have a private conversation, but while her heart had settled into the comfort of that, there was something still nagging at her. Something familiar nagging at her. She took her eyes from Helena as the door was closed behind her to look about the room in attempts to decipher what it was that was nagging at her. She paused and breathed in, and before letting it out, she forgot for a moment that she was even holding it, for she had realised and nothing else mattered.

“This is your office.”

“Yes,” Helena said. “Was it the many books or the vase that gave it away?”

“What?” Myka asked, turning to look at the other woman, before turning again to look at indeed that pile of books that Myka had gifted her on many different occasions, and indeed that vase that had new flowers in it, but was still the same Grecian style one that she had dropped off to The Warehouse. “No,” Myka muttered with defeat, because it wasn’t any of those things that she’d seen. It was what she smelt. “I breathed you in. I could smell you here.”

“Oh, Myka…” Helena whispered, walking to the turned back that faced her, and reached a hand out. At the last moment, she dropped it and walked around her to the desk. “But yes, this is my office. Because… The Warehouse is mine as well.”

“Really?”

“In part. Mrs Frederic is co-owner.”

“That makes sense,” Myka said with a nod. “I’ve never not seen her here and in charge of… everything.”

“The way she likes it,” Helena said with a small laugh.

“When did you… and she… buy… this?” Myka stumbled through, her mind too fuzzy at that moment to focus intently on the seriousness of the situation.

“I see that Irene held true to her promise in keeping your glass filled.”

And of course, Myka knew that everyone had first names, and that Mrs Frederic was of no exception, yet still she asked, in her champagne-induced and overwhelmed state, “she has a first name?” Helena smiled, softly but not heartily, and continued.

“To answer when we bought it, and why, and how, I will need to start at the beginning, so if you will, I think you should sit.” Again, Myka did as she was told and sat, accepting as well the glass of water that was poured for her. “And before I begin this story, I feel it necessary and right to tell you the truth as to what you witnessed downstairs.”

“That being?”

“That Nathaniel is dead.”

“Yes. I know.”

“And that I killed him.”

It would have been an opportune moment for Myka to blurt, “what?” and scramble for an understanding as to what had just been admitted, no… _confessed_ to her, but all the omissions of truth, all the silence and the lying sadness in Helena’s eyes not minutes before seemed to suddenly fall into her lap and say truth. She did not know what truth she was reading, and would need a darn good explanation for it all, but she supposed that if she sat for a few silent moments longer with the obvious shock on her face, Helena would step forward and give her indeed that: an explanation for it all.

“Right. Well, when I was eighteen, I decided to leave England in search of a new life and adventure in America. I sometimes wonder what would have come of me had I not left, but do not dwell on the ideas for long…”

At the age of eighteen, and the world was turning into one of grandeur and design where a mind like hers began to flourish, Helena impulsively bought a ticket for a steamer that would take her across the Pacific to a land where she knew no one, had nothing, and would most likely be seen and treated as an outcast. When she told her brother of her plan, Charles stated as much to which she returned, “I already am an outcast, so at least in a new country it will be on my terms.” Such logic, fanciful and poetic – to which Helena had purposefully exuded in her statement so that her brother might be empathetically impressed – urged him to help her on her way. If Charles had not given Helena the few hundred pounds that she needed in her first weeks on American soil, she was most sure that she would not have survived, regardless of how much her wit and intelligence could aid her.

She was to be soon engaged to some man of her parents choosing, and not accepting that for her life one iota, a creaking steamer where she had to share a bathroom and sleep sitting upright seemed the more desirable option. Her parents heard of the plan, for she thought it terribly rude to not inform them at all – that and she pitied what wrath Charles would face on her behalf if he had been the one to tell them once she’d left – and with their anger and misunderstanding the last that she’d seen of them in this life, it was practically how she would have remembered them whether she’d told them or not.

The voyage was long but merely a second in her memory as she told Myka, for there was more of her story to tell than how if she sat at a forty-five-degree angle in her slouched seat with her feet braced against the wall, she would not throw up. The voyage was short once it was over, and Helena’s first night in New York was spent in the back-room of a brothel, to which she simply had to write Charles about as soon as she could manage. After a week, and after offered a job there nearly every day, she secured a room at a ladies board house and began looking for work. A fellow boarding girl linked her up with a job at a diner, and once she’d worked there for a month or two, she graduated to being a waitress at a swanky bar uptown, where her tips were nicer the more she flirted, and the more she put her wit on display. A few slight gambling games here and there, a flirtatious conversation whilst she tinkered with a drunken man’s watch until it was ticking again, and she was able to find her own small apartment so that flirting with such company need not stop at the front step of the boarding home.

“Truth be told, Myka, I really did not know what I was doing in America, nor what I wanted to happen beyond that of having a bit of fun and being my own charge for a time.”

“I thought that when I started college,” Myka responded over the lip of her glass.

“Oh?” Helena mused, sure that such charge was not referring to the same thing, but venturing to know nonetheless.

“I could buy and read any book I liked without my father’s permission.”

“Of course, you could.”

For Helena, however, such loose charge took the form of enjoying her youth and enjoying a few handsome men’s and darling women’s youths as well. Charles needn’t hear of that, though. She had been in New York for two years one day, and she was thrilled to know that she could survive on her own, and take care of herself, but then of course… She had rented an even nicer apartment and threw the odd party for her band of friends – none of which she had a thing in common with, but laughed together over a bottle or two of wine just the same.

She could take care of herself, and was having a grand time of it at that, but one day she was ill, and that day turned into two days and she was eating more, and when she took herself to the doctor, she heard that she would soon need to be taking care of two instead of one. She was terrified yet overjoyed at the same time, and was naively sure that she would be able to continue living her life with a baby on her hip just as well as she had been for the past two years.

Naivety proved so soon enough, and Helena could no longer work at the clubs she had found a second home in, despite their detrimental lack of hygiene, and was unemployed. She had to give up her nice apartment in lieu of one that was smaller, more affordable, and less safe than she would have liked, but in all the darkness and slurry of the city that she now saw, she had the beauty of one Miss Christina Wells to dote upon daily. She reacquired her job at the diner and was allowed to leave Christina with her landlord during that day, but once Christina was old enough, she accompanied Helena to work and sat on a stool on her own drinking milkshakes all day.

It wasn’t ideal, but after never really having an idea, Helena accepted it and did what she could with the situation to be happy.

“How old…” Myka interrupted when Helena had paused, sitting in her chair across the desk with a slouch, a frown, and her hand holding her locket. “How old was Christina when she died?”

“She was six, but there’s still more to the story before then.”

“Good, I don’t want to hear that part yet.”

It was a sunny day off, a Saturday as a matter of fact, when she had taken herself and Christina to the next few block’s over local park with a picnic. Christina was in her hand-made dress, and Helena was in her own hand-made slacks and altered men’s button-up. She was watching Christina intently, but was also aware of the men who found her threatening and the few women who found her intriguing, but did not at all notice the mature-aged man with little copper glasses walk up to her in his own well-tailored suit.

Caturanga.

The man spoke eloquently and with a sense of flare that caught Helena’s mind, and when he was equally impressed with her as she was with him, she felt as if somehow, somewhere, she had fallen into line. She had been wandering aimlessly in the new world, not believing that she was to be anywhere else. She was having fun and learning, experiencing the ups and downs of adulthood and motherhood, thinking that she had not meant to be on any sort of life plan, or plan at all. Not one for planning herself, and rather “going where the clues led” – as she liked to say to brother Charles when they were investigating some juvenile mischief in an equally juvenile and mischievous game –the realisation that she had been found and _seen_ , thus given a chance at a plan of her own was oddly refreshing and equally satisfying.

Within the week, she had left her job at the diner, and was welcomed into the foyer of Caturanga’s secluded tailor and seamstress store. Helena was set up with her own little desk and sewing machine, although more often than not if she had the time, she preferred to go by the skill of her own fingertips and not the temperamental mechanics of the machine. It was a genius invention, and most likely helped the stressed housewife or the labour worker in mass production, but for personalised and indeed more dear work, _her_ work could afford to be more time-consuming.

At first, she was merely mending garments but when she was allowed in her quiet hours of the day to use the facilities to create dresses or play clothes for the ever-growing Christina, Caturanga was shown the level of Helena’s skill yet again.

“Where did you learn to sew?” Myka interrupted, her chin resting in the palm of her hand as she leaned on the chair’s arm.

“My nanny taught me,” Helena answered.

“You had a nanny?”

“English families of even slight wealth had nannies for their children. I did not always understand or appreciate why they might… how foolish of me to think that mothers would want to actually raise their own children,” Helena spat at the end, slowly but surely throwing herself into the back of her chair.

A lull settled over them, and it was anew in the conversation for silence to be saying as much as Helena’s story-telling had been. Myka looked at the other woman and saw the flush in her cheeks express how she had felt unloved and had as a result poured that love in comparison on her daughter. “You loved Christina so much,” she uttered softly, and in the quietness of the room, it rang loud and clear to Helena’s ears.

“I could not imagine any other way to be a mother.”

To be such a mother, giving all that she earned and all that she had to the betterment of her daughter, Helena lived her life and followed her plan so that they could both be happy. She made clothes for Christina and for others so that their payment may afford a better life for the girl. She worked long hours at times so that each little bit could make a difference. And with each little minute, each little difference and each big moment in their lives, Helena grew all the more proud of the smaller version of herself that she was incidentally raising.

Of course, Christina had a blended accent that Helena referred to as a “refined American” dialect. To hear such a little voice read complex literature back to her, stumbling through excessively long phrases with a frustrated huff part way through, and then her little mouth rounding around intellectual words with the simplifying that only a five-year-old could manage, was music to Helena’s ears. In later years, with the absence of such song, Helena turned to jazz for how the low and rhythmic play of tunes mimicked the slow and purposeful oration of books by her too-young-to-comprehend-the-words daughter. When that illusion grew thin, she fell into the lyrics and how they spoke of lost love, or wishing a person back, and while it was written in the context of adult romance, the greatest love she had ever felt paralleled the greatest love those singers reminisced of.

“And then it all changed,” Helena whispered before sniffling heavily, her eyes welling and her brows furrowing wearily. “It was an ordinary day. I worked late so many evenings that winter… one too many, apparently…”

As winter approached, suits began to trickle in calmly to the store for alterations, but when the frosty months fell over them as thickly as the snow that Christina’s small body had to trudge through to get home, later nights did indeed become a commonality. Not every week, but when a week featured one afternoon that dragged on with the number of alterations and complete new tailoring to be done, it was usually followed by a few more until the weekend. Men were coming in to purchase a suit for the office Christmas party, or the family dinner on the eve; women coming in to alter a dress that they simply swore fit them the spring before, and now needed alterations to happen whilst also presenting as if not a thing had been changed at all.

That was where Helena stepped in. While she could assist – and often did – with the hemming of suits or fixing the inseam that Caturanga’s aging eyes could not perfect, it was her job solely to alter dresses, most simply because female clients were obviously more comfortable with a fellow woman working intimately with them. At times, such close proximity proved exciting for Helena, and as well the lady she was aiding, and so a late evening would not always necessarily be due to work. On that particular night – for it had indeed transitioned dramatically, coldly, from evening to night – and Helena was more than antsy to leave the store and return home to her tired and hungry daughter, the woman on her pedestal was proving difficult.

She asked for the moon and denied Helena the chance to suggest that perhaps the stars would be effective enough. When customers came in who had more money to spend or to frivolously through away to excessive and unnecessary alterations, they were more often than not the more difficult. On one end of the scale were the customers that knew not at all what they wanted from Helena’s skill, and then on the other end the customers who asked too much of even Caturanga’s skill.

The lady left somewhat content with the plans for her dress long after restaurants on the street had closed, and it looked as if finally, Helena would be free to leave. As she passed her employer at the door, he apologised for the late hour yet continued to tinker with the machine that sat at his desk.

“He had tried to fix it in attempts to save me needing to, but had only made it worse,” Helena half-laughed.

“Isn’t that what men do best?” Myka asked, a half-laugh in her voice as well. “Please tell me you did not stay to help.”

“I did.”

She did, and though still berating herself of the decision in kindness to the day that she was relaying the story to Myka, it really did not matter in the grand scheme of things. It was already too late, even before she had realised that evening was fading to night; it was too late.

The streets were cold, and the window frame was icy as Helena approached her and Christina’s little apartment on the ground floor of the building they lived in. She unlocked the door, and called her daughter’s name through the darkness, flicking on the light switch that was too tall for Christina to ever reach – and had been instructed not to climb to reach, for Helena would never be home long after dark – and began to search. There were only three rooms in the apartment, and she must have searched them a dozen times over, each time in varying pace for maybe, hopefully, her cheeky daughter was simply hiding from mummy, but soon the realisation struck her like a knife to her heart that her daughter was not there.

She called Caturanga on the apartment building telephone and was not surprised to hear his voice when she rang the tailor shop’s number, but was surprised with the short time that it took the man to arrive at her front door.

“She was taken in the night…” Myka whispered, remembering how Helena had uttered the phrase herself when first telling her of her daughter. “She was _taken_.”

“Yes.” The two of them, Caturanga and Helena searched for as long as they could and as far as they could manage without simply running blindly in any direction, and by the next sunrise, there was a police officer at Helena’s door taking down the description of Christina and being as tactful as he could while also letting her know of what the worst outcome could be. Helena knew what the worst outcome could be, would be, but needed to stay grounded.

Sadly, her eyes betrayed her every other minute and she thought that she could never cry more in her life than she was in that week. And then the police officer was back at her door in the early morning with an even more grim look on his also too-young features than before. Christina’s limp body had been found and when Helena saw her again she was cold and paler than her British heritage would account for, and then… _then_ Helena cried more than she had in all of her life.

In her chair, in her office, in her club, Helena’s eyes betrayed her again and she brought her hand up to cover her eyes. At this crumble in a way she had seen before, over really the same topic, Myka pushed herself up without even a pause to balance, and rounded the desk to the woman she had once comforted and still loved. “Darling,” she whispered, and Helena’s hand dropped to reveal a single shake of her head; at the term of endearment or the situation in its entirety, Myka did not know, but she pushed on nonetheless. Kneeling down, she placed her hands to the knees of the other woman and ran her hands across, around, and then up her thighs slightly. “Breathe for me.”

Helena’s breath shuddered and her body relaxed a little, leaning forward towards and down to Myka who moved toward her in return until their foreheads were touching. Myka closed her eyes as her face was touched softly, her lips tingling as breath that was not hers passed across them.

“Did you want to continue telling me?”

“Yes,” was Helena’s short and quick answer.

“Here?”

“It has to be.”

“Have a moment, though, please,” Myka urged with a gentle press forward into the other woman. “Breathe again before you speak again.”

They did just that, and did nothing but breathe and breathe each other in to pass the moments until Helena was ready to continue. When she did, Myka sat back on her knees in front of her, one hand still on the other woman’s knee.

“The months passed by; too slowly, but then also quickly somehow for one day it was suddenly three months later and I was alone at home when I should’ve been at work. The sun was high in the sky and I hadn’t yet opened the curtains to our… my bedroom, nor even dressed myself for the day. If I hadn’t become self-aware in that moment,” Helena said with a widening of her glazed eyes. “I fear that I might still be there rotting away, wishing for a resolve that would never come.”

Her months had been quiet, miserably and dishearteningly, for not even the police came to knock on her door anymore. She still worked for Caturanga, but her skill was declining as her motivation and passion for really anything did as well. He did not let her go, but she simply decided to make the decision for him, fearing that others would suffer because she could not let go of what had already gone.

Thus, she was unemployed again, and yet still needed to pay rent, to feed herself and keep herself alive although to what end, she did not much care for anymore. At a dire time, Helena sacrificed what pride she had left and picked up at her old, old job at one of New York’s more notorious and filthy clubs. The hours kept her mind off a theoretical finish time where she would return to a darkening apartment and hungry, sleepy daughter. The cliental kept her mind off the voices in her head whispering malicious torments of blame and harsh truths. The club itself, well… alcohol became a friendly elixir that had a way of returning life to the way it was years ago, before Christina and the plain and euphoric joys that came with her.

The alcohol that began to lace Helena’s veins became a time machine that transported her to a time when she was naïve and couldn’t care to know any better.

“But…” Myka began with a whisper when Helena paused to refocus again and beg herself to not cry more than her still weeping eyes could bare. “Nevermind.”

“No, what were you going to ask?”

“Did you ever find out what happened to her… beyond that she’d been kidnapped and mur…dered.”

“There was a time when I would really liked to have not known even that. But what good was that doing me?” Helena asked of both of them.

It was a night like any other that Helena had fallen into, a veritable groove in a record that spun around and around, scratching into who she was and dragging out from her only what others wanted to hear, see, feel, believe that she was. She had finished her late shift just after midnight, and as the club was not yet going to close, she pulled up a stool of her own to have a drink for a change that was not on the clock. Voices blurred into one white noise all around her, like the buzzing of bees, but then the boisterous and obnoxious bark of laughter from beside her, as the snap of a newspaper cracked in her ear like a whip heed her attention.

A group of thirty-something-year-old men, all dressed in suits made of such fine material that even Caturanga would cry at the sight of, were all crowding around a newspaper that featured some story to which they had presumably known of before it had ever made it to print. They were laughing and nudging each other, spilling drinks as they toasted each other in some form of success. The whole ordeal was of no interest to Helena, and yet their booming voices persisted in her ear.

Then she heard it.

Their voices dropped in volume, and she found that fact interesting so listened in more closely. “A goddamn kid,” they spoke of.

“Pa wasn’t proud but by god, how fun these random little games can be,” they continued. “I wonder what her family is like now.”

“I don’t care. It was just some poor British brat in a nice dress, left alone in a dark fucking apartment.”

“How could we not feel like having some fun?”

“I’m surprised they even fished her body out o’ the goddamn river, to be honest. I guess that’s still as far as the cops have gotten, though.”

“They ain’t ever going to catch us.”

“Pa made sure o’ that,” one spoke again, before stepping back from the group just enough to throw his head back and down his drink. When he’d finished, he wiped his mouth and smiled back at his friends, his band of fellow scum, Helena would say. She looked up at him as she began to spin off her stool, and his face… it was nothing interesting, and if he hadn’t just been saying what he had been, she most likely would have never recognised him again.

But because she had just heard him and the rest of the scum admit in their own arrogant way to murdering her little Christina _for the fun of it_ , she would never forget his face for as long as she lived. Or now, as she had planned, for as long as he lived.

From that night, Helena hoped that she would see them again – even just the one she remembered distinctly – when she worked her late shifts. She stopped drinking as much as she could bare, because she still could not bare altogether, and did what she could in her daytimes to become more equipped for whatever her new burning motivation was telling her to prepare for. She read books, and found by word-of-mouth underground fighting clubs. She never took part, but studied their footwork, their diversion techniques and how one swift blow to the neck could ground a man.

Every other night those men returned and each night she would be nothing but invisible to them while still doing her job. When she had watched them for enough time, sometimes even sitting beside them at the bar like she had on that first meeting, and was sure that they neither had an idea, nor cared for the idea that she was watching them, she took it to the next step and followed them. In part, she expected them to break off one by one until she was following one last member, and that she would need to repeat the action over the next weeks again until she knew where each resided, but was also so terribly glad to find that they simply all continued to the docks down by Hudson, a mere six blocks from her apartment and slipped into what looked like some abandoned fishing factory.

There were nights when she wasn’t working, and while she had attended the fight clubs on those nights, she soon graduated to waiting at the docks entirely. She knew that they would arrive and wanted to see if there was a pattern to said arrivals, as if they were to be expected at a certain time.

There was no pattern.

An excellent discovery, Helena began working herself up to the moment, the pinnacle of her plan. She had spent by that time a few months learning of each step, running through them all until she had reached the desired end result, and would therefore hopefully enact that plan with precision and such skill so that the police need never solve Christina’s murder for they would have a whole new lot on their hands.

The night was cold, the docks were creaking, and Helena had not stood so close to the water’s edge since she had first stepped foot onto the ship that took her away from England. Charles had married and her parents had passed away from influenza. She didn’t write many letters home anymore, and if she was being honest, she hadn’t done since Christina was born. Proud as she was, and entirely elated to have her daughter, the fact still remained that her parents would not approve and that Charles himself would have felt let down at how his bright and brave sister’s life had resulted.

The night was cold, the water was close to her, licking at her nostrils with the putrid stench of salt and most likely various rotting corpses of various different species. The scent should have been sickening, but she was a wronged woman with a plan and so her stomach was not the glass that it usually was, and she prepared. It was near midnight and there were seagulls overhead, cackling about their own sly jokes as the barking laughter of those men began to near. With that precision and skill, she was one with the shadows and not one of the scum saw her coming. It was an attack that lasted barely a minute, and the only reason that she had not continued to cut each and every body into little pieces fit for seagulls to feast on was the slamming of that abandoned factory door.

She stood, looked, counted, and realised that the face she remembered was not there. The others’ were – for she had indeed remembered theirs as well after the months she spent focussing on nothing else but – but his was not. There were voices, screams and a commotion from inside the door, too near to her for a speedy run back up the street to prove beneficial to her in that moment. She was left with no other option, now sickening as it was, than to dive in to the river and pray.

Voices lingered above her where she waded under the docks, clinging to a beam, but when they began to subside and the distant whirring of police sirens called, she edged herself away and down the bank, so that she may slip out from dark water to darker streets a little further from the scene and a little closer to home.

Her plan had been executed, but not completely.

“You’ve killed people before,” Myka whispered.

“Please understand that the police were very reluctant to try and if I ever wanted justice-“

“No, I mean. I understand. I do, Helena, and I’m… so proud of you.” Helena looked at her in bewilderment for a moment, as that was not the reaction she had expected, nor even hoped for, and yet there it was. Staring up at her with green eyes as earnest and pure as the grass of the park Christina and she would play in, and with a smile on her lips as sweet as her own daughter’s was in her memory. “But one got away.”

Helena nodded. “Nathaniel got away. From there, I kept what tabs on him I could, which was rather easy as the press had a field day keeping track of the ‘lone survivor of the dock murders.’ I really thought that they could come up with a better name for what I’d done, but alas.”

From there, Nathaniel moved to Chicago, which put a slight impediment in Helena’s plan going forward, for she could barely afford her life in New York, let alone the travel and then set-up of a new life in a new city. And yet, she had to. She began to sell items of hers that were very dear to her and yet dear to others for the right price as well, and for a short time, worked for Caturanga again. He was most thrilled to have her back – or “home” as he insisted on saying repeatedly – but when she had saved what she would need and then some to make the move, she did.

It was two years later before that move happened, and she had temporarily lost Nathaniel, was unsure if he was even still in Chicago, but the trusty newspapers were on her side it seemed, for she had been in the city for a month when the morning paper regaled the success of up-and-coming young businessman Nathaniel MacPherson. She smiled her mischievous smirk, and went back to working her plan. Money was again tight for a while, and she saved what she could, not ever really finding the loop that she might slip into to finish her plan, but one day, at one bar, in one corner of the city, she saw the one man she had been working to see.

He saw her, and she made a choice in that instant to be absolutely _not_ invisible anymore, to which he fancied her, found her words a charm, and invited her to take part in a deal that would last as long as they both decided to be rich for. Of course, with her savings and new-found friendship with the quick-witted manager of another bar, Irene Frederic, she decided to for a change enjoy the plan she was working, and bought a club.

She bought a club and turned it around into a safe-space and later alibi, before going ahead and taking a walk one day on the other side of town when it was really too cold a day to be doing as such.

“The day we met,” Myka mused.

“I had no intention of being side-tracked, for Nathaniel’s decision to move to Chicago was a big enough one as it was, but you…”

“Me…”

Helena paused as she shook her head in reminisce. “You were everything I had ever dreamed of. And an awfully attractive distraction.”

“Sorry for that,” Myka laughed.

“Either way,” Helena continued. “We had our time, however perfect and messy it was, but then for one plan to be completed so that I might even hope to have one with you, it _was_ necessary for us to part.”

“I understand that now,” Myka said apologetically, recalling how Helena had once stated the necessity of the situation to her, and how she had thrown it back in her face.

“And so, in its simplest form, I bought a gun, I bought a suit, and this evening I slipped away to cross the park where Artie waited. I put on the suit and took the gun from my purse and wandered in through the throngs of drunkards at Nathaniel’s club to ascend to his office and shoot him with my left hand.” Myka nodded her head backwards slowly, recalling in her vague memory the utterance of Helena wishing to somehow become capable of using both her hands with equal amounts of skill; to be ambidextrous… for whatever reason. “I did not say a word to him, nor had I ever planned to,” Helena said as Myka looked down at her hands wriggling. They were not nervous hands, Helena knew. They were creative hands, how Myka’s hands moved about as if trying to exactly pluck the right words from the air. “You need not create a phrase to say now, darling, for he is dead.”

“I know,” Myka said with a breathy laugh. Helena did know her as well as she knew her in return.

“I left via the fire escape and returned through the park, discarding the clothes in the pond and dashing to Artie’s car not a minute away.”

“Wait…” Myka interrupted. “Were you running through the park naked?”

“Heavens no, Myka. I am a lady, after all,” and Helena laughed at exactly what her mother would think of this version of ‘lady.’ “I was in my undergarments, but the park was empty.”

“What of the gun?”

“Artie disposed of it on his way to collect you, actually.” Myka’s mouth fell open, and Helena instinctively leant forward to reassure her, caressing her face and enticing her to rise up to meet her.  When Myka did, and her hands slid from knees to the tops of thighs, Helena leant forward again and pressed a kiss to the other woman’s forehead. “I know that this has most likely implicated you in some capacity.”

“I was anyway,” Myka stated.

“How so?”

“For loving you.” They smiled together. “But… what now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?? Another chapter to go straight into after this!!! Well go to it friends!!


	25. TWENTY-FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an explanation, but indeed Myka... what now? Well, a lot. But at least from this point onward, our ladies (and all of you as well!) know that it will be together. So let's get to it!

Her apartment was darkened when they arrived, but not dark. Helena had left a light on as was habit for her to do now, even if she did not always return there until morning. She no longer had a daughter waiting for her, but she did not want pure darkness to touch her home ever again. “Do you always leave a light on?” Myka asked as they edged inside and discarded layers, shoes.

Helena nodded. “Even when I sleep.”

Myka had the urge to ask why, but told herself to take a beat and think. Darkness was not what had taken Christina, but it was what afforded her to be taken. If the apartment looked as if it was inhabited at that moment that night many years ago, Christina might still be alive. Now, Myka deduced, darkness was a suffocating ghost that in its tamer existence merely reminded Helena of that night. In its wilder form, Myka did not want to think about what hells it forced upon Helena’s psyche and memories. “I’m sorry that I never left a lamp on,” was what Myka finally said.

“You never knew.”

“If you asked, I would’ve done it. I never would have denied you that. So… I’m sorry.”

“The streetlight through the window often worked just as well,” Helena said in assurance, stepping over to Myka and taking her hand to squeeze quickly. But then she did not let go; only looked down at their hands and how those hands of Myka’s offered her as much comfort as a lamp attempted to do. “And your body around me…”

Myka squeezed back.

~ ~ ~ ~

Myka covered her mouth as she yawned, but it was not at all a dainty one to stifle. She groaned as her face scrunched up and her eyes watered. Helena smiled at her sorrowfully, for she had just begun to hope that the other woman was ready to hear about her life and her truths, but sleep seemed to have other plans. “Shall I call Artie to drive you home?”

“No,” Myka insisted with a shake of her head, curls bouncing around her neck now that she had taken them down. “I want to keep listening.”

Helena looked earnestly and Myka returned the look, a veritable _please_ in how she raised her eyebrows at the Englishwoman to continue. “Coffee, then?”

“Yes, please, lo-“ Myka cut herself off, and Helena paused in her spot, mid-step to the kitchen. She looked at Myka, and Myka looked back. She smiled softly with understanding if the other woman did not want to continue, and then moved off. “Love,” Myka said to her turned back, and Helena smiled to the kettle as she filled it at the sink.

“Now,” Helena said once she had placed their coffees down on the table in front of Myka whose eyes were closed, but suddenly sprung open. “Are you sure that you are ready to hear of my mistakes?”

“Every last one, if you will.” Helena smiled again, and started at no place in particular, but started nonetheless.

~ ~ ~ ~

Her life had been an up and down experience when relayed in such a short time, that took her back to her voyage across from England. It wasn’t hard to talk of but was exhausting just the same. She knew so much of Myka’s life; what her parents’ preferred tea was, and what each of Tracy’s boyfriends had been called, where Sam had taken her for their first date and what time of the day Myka would sit down to write to him when he was at war. She knew so much of Myka, and loved every ounce of it, but had never been in a mindset, or heart-set to tell those things in return, but now she was and wanted to level the playing field, as it were. She wanted to start anew with both of them on the same page.

She took in a deep breath when she had finished for a while, and put down her coffee mug to the coffee table, for they had moved to the couch after Helena relayed her schooling days. Looking up to Myka, who was holding her mug by the handle and pressing the still-warm ceramic to her chest where her dress revealed skin that was chilled from sleepiness, she blinked once and said, “I love you.”

“I love you,” Myka returned, her face warming with a slight blush.

~ ~ ~ ~

The night was too still inside, and so they decided to venture upstairs to the roof where there might be even a slight breeze to cool their skin, or let them feel anything but pressured warmth. Myka had taken her cardigan up; not to wear, but to lay down on any of the dusty steps or ledges so she might sit and look up to Helena’s elegance in moonlight, a cigarette hanging from her lips, the smoke blending with her black hair and making magic. “Of course The Warehouse is yours,” Myka said after Helena had blown a soft smoke ring to the sky. “I should’ve known.”

“How?” Helena asked.

“You never took a purse with you to the club. How else were you paying for drinks unless you didn’t have to pay for them at all?”

“Oh,” Helena said with a bite of her lip, and they laughed together.

~ ~ ~ ~

They were still on the roof an hour later. There was no breeze, but there were streetlights for as far as their eyes could see that made constellations to mirror the ones above them. They were sitting on the concrete floor, their backs to the cool ledge, no longer looking at streetlamps, and looking at each other’s edging-closer hands that sat between them instead. Suddenly, Myka brought her hand up to her lap and shook her head, frowning in such a way that somehow prevented her eyes from letting tears fall. Just as suddenly, she placed her hand back between them, atop Helena’s completely now and wriggled her fingers until the ones beneath did as well and they interlaced. “You left me.”

“Myka...”

“Sam left me, and so did you.”

“Myka, don’t,” and for a moment Myka expected a shift of blame, a denial, for Helena to push herself away from... everything. “Do not place Sam and I in the same category.” She still waited; waited for the shift. “Sam had no choice, he did no wrong. He is a far better person than I, so please, please do not place blame on him...” – there was that blame Myka had expected but not in the form she had foreseen – “…when I am the only one who had caused fault.”

Her tears fell. Sam had no blame. Helena somehow had it all. And she had Myka’s love along with it, for although she had done wrong, she knew it, and Myka could only praise her for that.

~ ~ ~ ~

Myka said, “I’ve read a lot of books, you know?” They both laughed a little because it had all been so heavy and they had just gotten air and returned to the apartment, but it was stuffy again too soon. Helena opened the window and slightly rearranged the lounge room so that the couch was closer and facing the open air. “And I’ve read a lot of bad guys and never gotten bored. But I was getting so sick of you being the bad guy, Helena.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you just say back in the museum that day you told me of this _someone else_ that you weren’t the bad guy?”

“Would you have believed me?” Helena asked with her eyes watching the other woman’s hands. She was fixated with her continued enjoyment at how when they had flopped down to her couch, Myka had grabbed her ankles and pulled them across her lap to distractedly caress.

“I would have, yes. I believe everything you say, and Pete says that makes me a fool. Makes me a little weak.”

“Perhaps he’s right.”

“He’s not. I believe everything you say and then I realise that I’ve never believed in something as much as I do you, and that belief in you, that love _for_ you has made me stronger than I have ever been.” She emphasised her point with a firm squeeze to the legs she held.

“But Myka,” Helena said as she leaned forward and slid her hands across her knees to Myka’s and held them. “I cut open your scars.”

Myka squeezed, and said, “but I healed. It was slow and painful, and I didn’t think that I was at all, but I was. I’m here with you and my scars are healed. You didn’t open my old wounds.”

“You said I did.”

“I was angry. You didn’t. I was just oozing pain so much and it felt so similar to Sam that I assumed that pain was from the same wound.”

“I hurt you though.”

“I hurt you. I didn’t understand,” Myka admits.

“How could you? I never told you anything.”

“But now you have.” They didn’t smile at each other or blink what was settling between them away. They simply settled with it, finding comfort once again in each other’s breathing. “Do you know why I read books so many times over?”

“Because they’re good?”

“Because the first time I read something, I only ever read the text, I only ever see the perspective of the person framed as the hero. I reread because there is always more than one perspective, and there is always more story to tell than what the words on the pages are saying.” Helena stared at her and blinked. She blinked, and her opening eyes seemed to understand how Myka was now understanding. This evening, this talking and finally sharing was Myka rereading their book, their story so that she could see Helena’s perspective. “I didn’t understand why you did things, and why you wouldn’t tell me, because I was only focusing on the text. On me.”

“I think you focussed on me a little,” Helena poked, remembering how intently Myka would trace her body with warm fingertips after sleeping together.

“Not enough.” Helena yawned and Myka mirrored it, another laugh barrelling through them as they let go of each other’s hands to cover their mouths and rub at weary eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~

Helena stood across from her in the small space of her bedroom. Myka had never been in the room and would usually look about any space she was new to, scanning to remember details, to familiarise herself with the area she now inhabited, but to do so in that moment would be fruitless and stupid. Why try to focus on anything in that room that wasn’t Helena? She would not remember any detail of the space or the furniture, the drapes of the window or how the covers of Helena’s bed picked up subtle colours of those drapes, because all her mind could hold in that moment, in any moment where she was with the other woman, was her.

There was a sole lamp on in the corner, and the bedroom door shut out the empty darkness from the rest of the apartment. It was just them, in a bedroom, alone and safe. Yet, as Myka stood across from Helena, barely able to reach her with her fingertips if she reached out, they stood frozen in that distance. Wanting so much for Helena in that moment, for her to step forward and push the dress off Myka’s shoulders – she had bought it and sent it to her after all, so she really already knew how it worked and what to do to get it off her – but also not sure if she ever would, Myka frowned.

She brought her lip slowly into her mouth and bit it, not sure what she should do next, nor what would happen next is she didn’t do something. Helena wasn’t moving. She was barely blinking at her, and seemed for all intents and purposes to be waiting on Myka to make a move. Perhaps deep in Myka’s subconscious, in the part of her brain that made her arms feel the need to move but also resist to at the same time, she wanted the Helena from months ago to be making a move. The Helena that had rolled her to her back and slid her hand into Myka’s pyjama pants. The Helena that had taken control because _Myka_ was scared and…

“I want you, Myka,” Helena whispered, having stared long enough at the taller woman’s frown for it to burn her eyes. “But-“

“No, Helena,” and her legs took her a step forward, arms outstretched and fingertips bumping against Helena’s arms that hung coldly. “There doesn’t need to be a reason anymore for why we shouldn’t be together. Why we can’t be together… There’s no reason.”

“But I’m scared,” Helena finished. Myka’s fingertips slid down from their loose grasp on wrists to glide through hands that wouldn’t grab her, and let go.

“Of me?”

“God, no,” Helena said, bowing her head and reaching out to take Myka’s hands, but letting them fall, empty, at the last moment. They continued to be apart from each other. They continued to be at a distance from each other even though sharing the same air. “I am scared of hurting you again. I tried so much not to, but it still ended up the same way as if I hadn’t cared at all. I have been shown now that I have no control over that matter.”

“Bullshit!” Myka hushed, causing Helena to gape in astonishment for a moment. “You do have control, and now I know that you never _meant_ to hurt me. It’s different!”

“But I should’ve told you everything,” Helena buckled.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Helena…” Myka whispered, reaching out again to hold her; still scarred and burnt, but reaching out again to catch the flame.

“Perhaps I didn’t want to admit how much I cared for you as well, and so I denied it altogether by not saying a thing. Either way, I didn’t want to scare you and lose you.”

“The only thing that scares me _is_ losing you. Again.” She slid her hands up from Helena’s to her arms and then shoulders. Wanting all of her at once, she found her hands unsure and scattered, roaming across the bare of her shoulders and the gold chain to her neck, back down under her hair and around to her arms again, always with delicacy, and always with the hope that Helena would reach for her. “I’ve never felt like this. I’ve never felt so full and calm at the same time.” She stilled her hands, edging her face forward to Helena’s but not nudging noses or resting foreheads, just edging until Helena looked up to her. “I’ve never felt so in love with anyone or anything in my life.”

“Never?” the other woman’s voice asked, trembling.

“Never. And I doubt that I ever will again.”

“I feel…” Helena began before her chin began to tremble as well. Myka brought her hand up instinctively to touch it, pinch it tenderly between thumb and the side of her forefinger. Helena sniffled, and so Myka let her hand move away to her neck instead, her chest, the chain and then press to the locket that was concealed in the cleavage of her dress. “I love you, I do, I do, Myka,” and it was her turn this time to edge her face towards the taller woman’s, ducking away when she got too close. “In this moment, as much as I have loved and do love my daughter, I have never felt this safe in love. This safe _to_ love.”

Finally, edging of faces and breathing in each other’s soft words crumbled together and they broke through to each other, bringing their lips together in a soft and needing kiss. Helena could feel every fibre in her body cry out for Myka, to hold her and kiss her, and yet it was all too overwhelming still for some reason, for some fear and so she did not. She let the kiss end and ducked her head again while Myka’s hands fell from her body completely, not wanting that fear to be ignored. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Helena answered, but it wasn’t all that she could have said. “I don’t know where to start,” and such words, words of confirmation in wanting this but not knowing how to, let Myka realise that the Helena she wanted from months ago to take control, to push the straps off her shoulders and undress her, was a different Helena than was in front of her, and so it was up to her. Months of wondering who was to make the first move, and thinking all day that it was Helena for having sent her the dress fell to the floor defeated as she realised that the gesture was but an offering. The dress was but an open door, opened by Helena, but for Myka to step through.

She took a step backwards with a smirk on her face that held the other woman’s gaze, and then she stepped through. “Let me start for you then.” She raised her hands to the shoulders of her dress, and as she had many a time that day in her own apartment, she nudged the straps off, and let the satin glide off her body to become a shimmering heap on the floor, and she was wrong. While it may have been spectacular to have Helena be the one that undressed her from such elegance, the look on her face at having watched it done for her instead was all the more delicious.

At Amanda’s suggestion, Myka had not worn a bra, but such a figure-hugging dress as well meant that whatever she did wear underneath could be seen in dents and details, and so Myka had gone without completely. She stood naked in front of Helena, having had only red satin cover her body all evening, and where she had been deathly terrified of the fact up until the moment she revealed it, now that she had, she would do it all over again tenfold for the mere reaction on Helena’s face and her own body alone.

Her own smirk began to invite one of Helena’s as well as she stepped back towards her, out of the dress and towards her with hands sliding freely, welcomed to the Englishwoman’s body. While Helena’s moved along her arms, Myka quickly let her fingertips lead her across the taught blue material to her back where the zipper was. She undid it and helped as Helena shook her shoulders to rid herself of her second disguise of the evening. She kicked it off with a little difficulty, allowing them to laugh at the situation softly, lightly, before hands returned to skin craving the touch, and Myka bent her knees and pressed her lips to Helena’s neck.

Along with the discarded dresses, Helena’s bra, panties and stockings were cast aside, before they fell and crawled across the bed, pushing back covers and ignoring the soft of pillows to revel in the soft of each other instead. As they kissed, arms looping underneath waists and shoulders, Helena attempted to reach to her thighs, intent on removing her garters as well, but why use hands when teeth will do it better.

Myka moved off her and over her, pinning her wrists to the mattress before sliding down her body as she dragged fingernails down skin, kisses leading to the item of ridding desire. Her tummy tensed and her hips rolled ever so slightly, begging for Myka’s lips to press more soundly, suck more ferociously before her teeth left her to complete the task. In itself, the removing of her garters was ticklish, and with every nerve in her body already burning sensationally, the caress of Myka’s hair across her inner thighs practically sent Helena over the edge. She gasped and turned her head, the strain in her neck accentuated by its flush, and when she could no longer feel Myka against her, she pushed herself to open her eyes and look.

She couldn’t help but let out a laugh in amusement at the practically scandalous scene before her, Myka towering above her in dim lamp light, hair tussled and skin raw with nail marks, Helena’s garter hanging between her teeth like the virtual prey that it was. Myka’s own tummy was tensing, she could see, and her chest rose and fell with her excitement as she tossed the garter over the side of the bed, and began her stalking crawl back to Helena’s mouth. Feeling a damn fool yet again for thinking that she should never touch Myka again, Helena moved her hands across the bookkeeper’s body, pulling her in and guiding her movements until it was all she could manage not to scream with delight.

When the night grew to silent early morn, and they were still awake, Helena’s body curled and draped over Myka’s that lay exhaustedly face-down across a very messy bed, she felt in an instant entirely free. She took in a deep breath and let it out in a cool breeze blown across Myka’s back, wistfully sending rogue curls into a dance. At the end of the dance, Myka hummed, but it was one that sounded as if in lieu of saying Helena’s name, simply because exhaustion had indeed set in.

“My love?”

“I distracted you from your plan,” Myka said.

“Perhaps,” Helena began, for she had pondered this explanation for months now, ever since the edges of her plan’s boxes had begun to soften. “Perhaps I was supposed to be distracted by you.”

“I wasn’t part of your plan,” Myka protested. She did not know why she was protesting, just like she had no idea why as a child she was terrified of the telephone that never rang for her. “You weren’t part of my plan.”

“Maybe that’s...” and Helena bit her lip. She began her sentence again, sans a _maybe_ for she was oddly certain of what she was about to say this time. “That’s what ‘meant to be’ means.”

“What?” Myka laughed, breathed, let fall from her mouth. She had heard the other woman mutter those words to her about them what seemed a hundred times now, and they’d always sat so softly over them, like a veil, but now that veil clung to them.

“You weren’t a part of my plan, I wasn’t a part of your plan, but we were a part of someone’s plan, or something’s.”

“A conspiracy?”

“No, Myka, I mean, perhaps the universe or whatever, whomever people believe in-“

“What do you believe in?” Myka asked, knowing the answer.

“I believe that everything happens the way that it happens for a reason.” Helena Wells had had such a long and hard time of believing that, and then believing that she believed that, but it was true. She saw her plan, and that it was only a small puzzle piece of a larger plan, and so believed that everything happened for a reason. “What do you believe?”

“I believe in you. Like the fool that I am.”

“Let us be fools then.”

“To go along with some plan?”

“The universe’s plan.”

“Helena,” Myka said, pressing her face into the mattress because her body was alight from within but with long-lingering champagne and confusion, uncertainty and annoyance that they were even using their lips to have this conversation, this almost argument again, instead of kissing.

“That what ever plan I was a part of – not even my plan, but a plan that featured me – and what ever plan that you were a part of, was always meant to intersect,” Helena said just as exasperatedly as Myka was saying her name. “Because perhaps my own plan was never going to work, or be as fulfilled as it is with you in it, and vice versa. Perhaps our _plans_ for life, dreams... revenge, were always supposed to be _our plan_ , singular!”

And it was too much, they were too much, and Myka was going to explode with any amount and combination of emotions that she’d never be able to pinpoint, but what she could pin point in that exact moment with severe accuracy was her lips on Helena’s and how _that_ was meant to be. She kissed her. She pushed herself up and turned as much as she could to Helena, pressing their lips together before she could wonder and prophesise about whatever she was about to. She brought their faces, their lips, their goddamn plans together in the physical form and iteration of a searing kiss.

They kissed and nipped at each other, moving against each other as much as their weary bodies could manage without having to really get up until realising that they’d forgotten to breathe properly, and so they pulled apart; just enough, just a little. “Meant to be,” Helena whispered, her warm breath tickling burning lips.

“Meant to be,” Myka agreed with a satisfied sigh and a sweet smile, a giving in of her heart and soul and body to this woman, to this someone-else’s-plan woman, to her new-plan woman.

~ ~ ~ ~

In their post-coital embrace, it felt physically how it used to be, down to how Helena’s fingertips had wound into Myka’s hair at the nape of her neck to twirl. Emotionally, however, it was not the same. Mentally, Myka was aware that she was tensing, her body not completely able to melt into the body beneath her limbs and chest. She breathed out slowly, her ribs not collapsing at all; too tense to allow the relief to fall from her. In lieu of removing her body to quell any worry that her tenseness would be seen as discomfort, unsureness, or trepidation, she pushed herself from the mattress where the sheet stuck to her in the wee dark hours of the day, and pressed into Helena.

The hand in her hair slipped out and wrapped around Myka’s shoulders to hold her close, needing the extra pressure just as much for she too was aware that her body was tense. Her feet were clamped together almost as if imitating a mermaid with Myka’s long leg draped over, but when her body was pressed into, she parted them and bent them so that they could tangle with intent. When still again, embracing in a freer way, determined to hold onto each other and try again, both women let out breaths of air that tickled skin and caused goose bumps and smiles. Helena pressed a kiss to Myka’s forehead to seal the moment that was a silent promise made between them.

Later, when breaths were easier and caresses were softer and more familiar, Myka shifted her head against Helena’s shoulder and spoke into her neck, “I wrote you letters.”

“I never received any,” Helena responded, her hand stilling in its musings against soft skin in worry.

“I never sent them. I didn’t know where to send them,” Myka admitted. “I didn’t know how to send them. They were never the right words.”

“Any word would have been right, just to see it in your hand.”

“None of my words would do, I figured out.”

“Oh?” Helena wondered, shifting her own head against the pillow to look down at Myka.

“Mmhm.” Myka said no more, and so Helena moved her head back to its original position and looked about her bedroom in lamp light. She spied her second record player (a smaller one that she had bought from an antique market and played only the best tunes on) that still had the soothing words of Billie Holiday poised underneath the needle that hovered above it.

“I listened to music.”

“What kind?”

“Songs that I used to think of Christina to. Lost loves, an empty bed, a smile that I’d never see again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Instead, I began to think of you.”

“Really?” Myka asked, shifting up to her elbow for she wanted to see Helena speak of her in song lyrics.

“Mmhm,” Helena offered, just as the other woman had a moment ago. “And do not be sorry. I listened to Billie Holiday most of all.”

“So did I,” Myka smiled.

“What song?”

“What song did you listen to?”

“I asked first, Myka,” Helena tickled, and the woman crumbled back to the mattress as she tried to save herself. “ _I’ll Be Seeing You_. I did see you in the park across the way, and I found you in the morning sun when you weren’t in the bed beside me.”

“A bed I’d never been in at all,” Myka pointed out.

“What song did you listen to?”

“First of all, I wanted to say that I could not find the right words to send you, but then I found them in a song, and hoped that one day, if only… we might listen to it together,” Myka explained.

“Billie?”

“Mmhm.”

“I have many of her songs in my record box,” Helena said. “Out in the lounge room. Have a look and bring it back in here to play?” Myka pushed herself up and untangled her legs, deciding to throw them over Helena’s body to straddle her in her exit instead of via the other side of the bed. Before removing herself completely, she leant down and pressed a kiss to Helena’s lips, then smiled as she left the bed and the room.

Left alone in her bedroom for a few moments, and having been unable to truly react to the evening’s events, Helena let herself beam to the ceiling above her, then to the curtains, then to the lamp, then to the spot in the bed beside her where the sheets were ruffled and the pillow tugged down from when Myka had orgasmed, then back to the ceiling. She was happy. Her world was far from perfect in its entirety, but for a fraction of it, there was perfection in it, and she was happy.

Myka returned a moment later with a record in hand and moved directly to the player by the wall. “You have two record players,” she stated. “I had no idea I had fallen for a woman with money.”

“Attractive, isn’t it?”

Myka paused, placed the needle down carefully, and as the scratch began before the first notes, she turned slowly with a devilish look in her eye to say, “incredibly.” The moment faded quickly enough, and she clambered back over the covers to settled into Helena’s side again, the first notes to Billie Holiday’s _All of Me_ filling the bedroom with a new layer of love and devotion that only made the women pull each other in more soundly, pressing kisses tenderly to each other’s skin and lips with every bold lyric that tugged at their heart strings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we are out of the woods, but with the logistic of stepping out of such woods, or even literal ones, there is still the big question as to where one is to go from there. Which direction to take, which path to follow, which lessons to have learned from the woods and which new problems to implement them into. Again, Myka and Helena will be together for all that is to come from here on out, but I could not just let it end at he edge of the woods. I wanted to see which... everything they would follow and embark on. Let me know what you think!


	26. TWENTY-SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we get to finishing line, we'll be jumping through time a little bit more with some pace about it, but in this chapter, a little bit of the unknown from earlier in the story is finally revealed: the letter that Helena first wrote to Myka. I had this written months before I even reached the point in the story where it was first mentioned, and so it is of great bliss that I finally get to release it for more than just Myka's (and my) eyes to read it. Enjoy!

The day was late and Myka sadly realised that by the time she would arrive at the markets, Hugo would not be there anymore. Alas, her flowers would have to hold on for another week. Her store ones would need to go in the next few days, but she would deal with them then. For the remainder of her weekend, Myka looked across the bedroom to Helena who sat on the far side of the bed with the sheet pulled around her shoulders like a cape, bathed in sunlight, and decided that she would not leave her love until the next morning when she need go to work. She had no idea where Helena would go, for she obviously no longer needed to meet for _arrangements_ of any kind, but did suppose that the police would be wanting to talk to her. “Helena,” she began, bringing her hand up to the bathroom door frame and leaning against it. The other woman turned on the bed, the sheet twisting beneath her with lines and curves reminiscent of the woman’s neck and body the night before under Myka’s touch. “Will the police question you tomorrow?”

“Most likely,” Helena answered calmly. “I imagine that they will be waiting at the club… Nathaniel’s club, for me. They may even…” She paused and stood from the bed, letting the sheet fall away when it came no further, still tucked into the foot of the bed. She crossed the room to Myka, her body naked and marked, pinkened, to be met with Myka’s outstretched hand that eased her into her embrace. A kiss pressed to her bare shoulder, a hand running down her back to come back up and wind in messy hair, it was safe in that moment to be in Myka’s arms. The conversation was paused in a touch of worry, or uncertainty and the need to be cautious, but they could reside in that moment of soft presence to remind themselves. “I might ask you to return to your apartment this evening.”

“If you like.”

“I don’t like,” Helena assured. “But… the police will most likely visit my doorstep tomorrow morning before they venture to the club.”

“Alright.” Myka finished the conversation with a kiss of understanding and her own assurance to the shorter woman’s forehead and moved back into the bathroom for her borrowed toothbrush.

She wanted to continue watching Helena stand there watching her, but had spent so much of her time doing so already for the last dozen hours that she thought a pause in the action might make the return to it all the more sweet. Instead, she watched her foamy toothbrush roam around her teeth, and feel her tongue roam along after it to feel the absence of gritty plaque. Not a book topic she had never read about, she was almost practically as knowledgeable as her childhood dentist.

Remembering eyes on her, but not daring to look around to them, she shifted in her stance, not that it showed much from underneath the flowing robe she had also borrowed. Only her ankles were visible beneath the hem, and she had tied it only loosely around her. Helena would have to stare at those ankles if she still craved the vision of her skin, but when tilting her head to gain different views of reflection in the mirror, she found Helena frowning at her instead. Myka froze, and turned to spit in the sink, rinse her mouth, stand again and find out why the frown was present after such a heavenly dozen hours of staring and loving.

Before she could ask, Helena stopped her with a direction: “run.”

“Helena, no. What?”

“I don’t want you to go to jail.”

“We won’t go to jail,” Myka said, despite the fact that she was saying that to a criminal and that she herself was aiding that criminal. She said it with such honesty and conviction.

“I don’t want you to lie for me.”

“I will lie for you,” Myka said again with conviction, her previous naïve and perfectionist self fading away in lieu of this adult with complications and grey areas.

“Don’t.”

“I will lie for you,” Myka repeated. “I will hide you, and protect you. I will stand in the way of you getting hurt or seen. I will fight for you. I would,” she changed her tense, “die for you, and if you hadn’t already succeeded, I would kill for you.”

“Do not,” Helena whispered, unsure if she really wanted Myka to or not. “Do not change yourself to suit me.”

“I love you with everything in me and all the things I have lost in my journey to find you.”

“Stop being so poetic, please,” Helena laughed a touch, for as much as she loved it, it was a little suffocating sometimes for things to be so accentuated and not plain and exactly how it was.

“Fine,” Myka resided, and stepped towards her love and held her hands. “I will do nothing in this world but love you. To love you is to fight for you and wish to protect you until my last breath, so _you_ …” she directed. “Do not stop me or deny me of loving you.” She brought Helena into her arms and wrapped her soundly in her love, enjoying the niggling hands that weaselled into her tied robe and pushed it aside to find warm skin.

“I love you, Myka.”

“And I love you, my Helena.”

~ ~ ~ ~

It was decided as well before Myka returned to her own apartment as the sun began to set that they would not spend a night at either of each other’s homes until the next weekend. They would perhaps see each other, and definitely call each other under the guise of friendship, for that would be the story told to the authorities. They were but friends who kept in contact over the winter whilst Miss Bering was with her family via phone calls on occasion and letters.

“May we see them?”

“I do not have them on me at present, Detective,” Helena responded to the question. “And they are rather of a personal matter, I hope you’ll appreciate.”

“Not hom…” he paused. Helena quirked her gaze at him, practically egging him to outright ask if her and Myka’s interactions were of the homosexual kind. He did not continue. “Understood.” While her face relayed no sign of relief at his choice to drop the topic – at least for now – she felt it immensely. Next, he asked her about any other persons she knew of that knew of Nathaniel MacPherson from her. She answered yes. Mrs Frederic was in truth a part of her plan and therefore did have to know of him to an extent. A wise woman, she would have heard of the murder and been able to deduce who it was that had committed it, but would not confess the fact.

They spoke of Irene Frederic for a while, and how they joint-owned a club. On talk of the club, the truth of it had to come out, but Helena had expected that.

“I will have to sacrifice the club, Irene,” she had said to the woman one night many months ago when they were the only two left in it. “I will have to let them know of it so that my alibi holds up, regardless of the reputation of the establishment I am using for said alibi.”

“I know, Helena. Stocks will be set aside, and it will be of no great financial loss for The Warehouse to crumble.”

“I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“Do not apologise, Helena,” Mrs Frederic had insisted. “I will start a new Warehouse. I will keep starting new Warehouses until I leave this earth.” It had sounded such a comforting idea. To hear that there would at least be one person in the world who would never stop creating safe spaces of endless wonder for those who needed it.

“How many will you end up having?” Helena had asked.

“…thirteen, I think.”

“Not fourteen?”

“Don’t get greedy, Helena.”

The Warehouse closed by the end of the week, and Myka was saddened to see it go. Memories were made there, and while she had never really made many friends there from other patrons, she was saddened for those who had, and would now not have that safe room behind closed walls to interact with each other. “They will find new places to frequent, my love,” Helena would say, but the sadness would linger. She supposed for those of the world like her, she would always feel a touch of sadness. She would feel undoubtably immense joy and love, companionship and connectedness, but always sadness.

Following weeks were quieter, and yet heightened. Friday and Saturday nights were spent together; with Steve and Leena, Claudia and Josh at times, Pete and Amanda, going to listen to the young musician play at some club or another, and then home to Myka’s to stay awake together. Saturday was still their day together, and Hugo was gladdened to see them back at his market stall, a new bouquet for each of them. Helena met with Mrs Frederic still, one time at the lot of some abandoned shed near the docks. Later that day, she arrived at Myka’s store and sat with her quietly, waiting until they had returned upstairs to crawl into the open arms that welcomed her in safely.

“It’s a good location, I cannot fault her that. She simply did not know what being near the docks brought back to me…” Helena explained of her limpid personality. Myka understood, and made no effort of unnecessary means to cheer the other woman up, instead letting her wait those feelings out but in a comforting environment where the day could pause for however long she needed; Myka would carry through whatever else needed to be done.

It was three weeks after Helena had been interviewed before Myka was approached in her store. She had been expecting it, and had actually taken action to prepare as best she could for the “surprise” visit. Nothing was different, unless you were Myka and knew that it was. A few customers had noticed, and only because those customers were Leena and some other local _people like them_ who had come in in search of a specific book or genre of book. “I think the police will be in to see me,” Myka had begun to explain when Leena asked.

“Say no more,” the other woman offered. And no other word did need be said; Myka had gone through her store and removed what books on queer history and namely Sappho that she had should the police be roaming her aisles with open eyes. Amanda’s father had not noticed when he and his team were there months ago, but the thought to protect herself in such a way had occurred to her nonetheless.

Now, there was a detective talking to her as he sat in the stool that Myka had out for Helena to sit in, and another uniformed officer paced her store. Thankfully no customers were there, although she was sure that a few passed with intentions on coming in, but the presence of the police warded them off for a time. “When did you first meet Miss Wells?” the grim detective asked. His face had no expression, but showed that he was stern in his duty.

“Last fall,” Myka answered. “She came in out of the cold one afternoon and I let her use my phone to call her driver.”

“Do you let all customers add to your phone bill?”

“Most live in the area, I believe. And I saw no reason to deny her request. It would have been cruel of me.”

“Or wise.”

“An act of kindness denied of a person is not seen by that person as wisdom. It is seen through a cruel lens, Detective.” He sat back against the wall. “I was not one to use my telephone much anyway.”

“Your family lives near?”

“Colorado.”

“You do not call them regularly?”

“Once a month if time allows. My father is rather busy with his own bookstore.”

“And your mother?”

“…isn’t much allowed to use the telephone without his supervision, shall I say. She is the kind more inclined to frivolously call a friend for lengthy periods of time.” It was a slight lie, for in comparison to Tracy’s phone calls, Jeannie’s were but a minute long.

“You use your telephone more often now, though?” he asked.

“Yes. Mainly to call Miss Wells. Most of my friends live within walking distance and so I never bother calling when a knock on their doors works well enough.”

“Have you befriended many of your customers?” he asked, a quirk in his brow slightly in obvious attempts to catch her in favouritism towards Helena.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. My neighbour Steve was once a customer before a neighbour, and we were friends in between. There are a few women, widowed I’m sad to say, who come in weekly for a book club. I would consider them to be friends as well.” Myka smiled when finished, quite impressed with herself, and her friendships, of course. “But, if you ask in regards to spending time at length with those friends, then no. You see, Detective,” she began again, a lilt and drop in her tone to suggest secrecy in her following words, or at least that what she was to say was of a private matter. “I never much did have very close friends. But I have found in Miss Wells a companion with very similar interests to my own, and it is nice to have a friend, a _close_ friend. Never once would I think myself ever lucky enough to converse on the matter of books or history, or to visit museums with another person, but I have found myself suddenly lucky, for I do have that person now. My good friend Helena Wells.”

“And were you aware that your good friend Helena Wells was so closely tied to Mr Nathaniel MacPherson?”

She paused, put back in her place by such a question, even though she had expected it. “Yes.”

“And still, you decided to befriend her?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For the reasons I just told you of, Detective. I cannot say that I was understanding or comfortable with her choice to know that man, but where his connection to her did not interfere with mine, I did not see any reason besides a perhaps _cruel_ one to make her choose.”

“And you think she chose to know him?”

“You would have to ask her that question, for I do not know.”

“That is why I asked for what you _think_.”

“I think that she had her reasons of whatever benefit to her, and I do not judge her of them, for they hurt no one.”

“Even if they scammed money out of some poor businessman?”

“Even if said businessman was in equal amounts a scammer?” she countered. The detective did not rebut her. Instead he went on to ask her of the winter, for Miss Wells had spoken of Myka’s return to Colorado, and how such close friends coped in those months. “Letters, phone calls,” Myka answered. “Did you want… to see the letters?” she asked with a quirk of her head to both the officer and detective for they seemed perplexed.

“That won’t be necessary,” the officer said.

“Actually, if you don’t mind,” the detective countered.

“You’ll have to ask Miss Wells for them,” Myka answered, as expected. “I am more of a hand-writer, and she the phone-caller. Conversation was odd in correspondence during those months,” she laughed.

Sure enough, later that week, when Helena and Myka were alone, a large envelope was pulled out of Helena’s bag. “The police asked to see these,” she said. “As you had anticipated. They did not read them, even after I asked if they were sure… just as you had anticipated.” Myka had placed all of her letters unsent to Helena in a large envelop that could hold them all before asking the other woman to write across it _letters from Myka_. Helena was sentimental, but practical, she deduced for the both of them, and for the police. She would not have kept a dozen envelopes if one larger one would do.

“I’m not just a pretty face,” Myka smirked.

“Darling…” Helena started as she turned the envelop around in her hands, glad that the police would have no need to ever touch it again. “I know that I am supposed to have read them, but I have actually not read your letters as yet.”

“Oh,” Myka said with a bounce of her self in realisation.

“Might I read them now?” The evening was setting in and Myka was about to prepare their dinner as Claudia had no set to play that Friday night, and while she, Leena and Steve planned to still go out somewhere, the couples of their group decided to spend the night in. Crossing from the kitchen to Helena who sat in her chair at the table with feet up and crossed on Myka’s, the bookkeeper smiled and bent down to press a kiss to the other woman’s forehead.

“I would love you to.” Helena smiled and opened the envelop, pulling out the handful of letters. “Partly because I cannot remember exactly what embarrassing things I rambled at all.”

Flicking through the letters, all on the same paper with varying forms of addressing herself at the beginning of letters, Helena found a sole envelop with contents still there. “This is the letter I wrote you when we first…”

“I forgot that that was there,” Myka said, crossing again from the kitchen to her love and took the letter handed out to her. She stood there as Helena began to open her own letters to read, and decided to reread the one in perfect English cursive for herself.

~ ~ ~ ~

_Dearest Myka,_

_First, the facts. Then the feelings._

_I do not love Nathaniel MacPherson. I do not care for him at all and could never care for him, nor any person like him. However, we have an arrangement that benefits me. He is, in a sense, the brains whilst I am the brawn - or body. When it comes to business deals, conversations of a financial meaning, simply situations in which there is something for him to gain, he is far too focussed on that gain and not how it is procured. Here is where I step in, for I am able to use my charms to... well, charm. In return for my skills of smoothing over an otherwise rough and itchy situation, I receive a cut of the money that is acquired. This allows me to live somewhat comfortably and afford the multitudes of books that I will pay you for._

_Yet, as Nathaniel is a man, my charms do not filter past him as I would have wished. I spend time with him as requested outside of business and such... favours grant me the freedom to have more to myself, more opinions, and the freedom to see whomever I choose._

_The last fact I can offer is this: I am willing in offering these skills and favours, and a part of that is to make Nathaniel - he believes it to be real, but for myself it is only pretend - feel special. To me, he is not. You, my darling Myka, are the only person alive on this earth that is special to me, are the only person that my heart and mind desires to know, are the only person that I now see everywhere, from lilies to typewriters to antique bookcases. You are the only person who is making me feel, and has me wanting to feel just for you._

_The feelings._

_Please believe me when I say, that it’s just a matter of time before you understand. I want you to understand. I will try and help you to understand. There is nothing more that I want than for you to see everything I leave in the shadows, everything I hide, and to still want to see me._

_I want to see and feel all of the sweet things with you, and all of the sweetly bitter as well._

_I had a plan, Miss Bering, and it was going well, moving along as a plan is planned to do, and then there was you and I was such an idiot to imagine that you would not affect me like you have. You were not an obstacle, no; but rather an exit point, an open door to another plan, a most likely better one. And if I had no ties to this current one, if I was not firing along with it out of a darker emotion, not sweet at all, and if I was able to go on living without the end goal of this plan, then I would not be writing this letter._

_Please do not think that this letter is my elaborate and wordy way of saying goodbye without ever explaining. This letter is my explanation as much as I can offer it at this point in my plan. This is my apology. This is my bleeding heart that had forgotten what it felt like to feel._

_If you never are to see me again, I understand, but if you are to think of me, please imagine my waiting by an always too silent telephone longing to hear your voice._

_I want to be greedy of you and to find my plan within yours._

_Your Helena._

~ ~ ~ ~

Myka looked over the top of the page as her soft smile lingered; her soft smile that had blossomed more and more from the instance she re-read, “dearest Myka.” Helena was holding a letter in her lap and craning her neck towards it as she read, her hand near her chin, a strand of hair being gingerly wound around her fingertip. Myka did that at times, she knew, and knew also how warming it was to see that characteristic mirrored in the one she loved. Folding her letter up and slipping it back into its envelope, she stepped to Helena and placed a hand to her shoulder. She pushed back as she leaned in, righting the woman’s posture as well as bringing her attention up to the mouth that was coming down to meet hers.

“What is it?” Helena asked when Myka leaned back up, hand still on shoulder.

“I am being greedy of you, too.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The wireless played though the silence of dinner, Myka’s cooking seeming to have improved as such silence indicated the enjoyment of it by those eating it. Perry Como played – not _Surrender_ , but both thought of the song instead of the one playing – and when Myka had set her cutlery down to her plate side by side, Bing Crosby began. She breathed out a soft laugh in her smile, remembering. Helena hummed in question, still finishing the last bites of her meal, and so Myka stood to clear her own plate, her feet practically gliding across floorboards in stride. Was she pretending to skate, Helena pondered, or beginning to dance.

An explanation: “Sam loved Bing Crosby,” Myka spoke to the kitchen sink with her smile still remaining. She looked up to Helena, and her smile grew larger. “He would often push past his nerve and pride, and sing to me… or at least, he would pretend to sing along to the words,” she laughed. “His voice was lovely, but not when he sang.”

Helena laughed along, perhaps not for the same reason, as Myka was making her way back out of the kitchen to dance a bit more. Then she sang; “lucky, lucky me, I can live in luxury, ‘cause I’ve got a pocketful of dreams.” Her love bopping around her to the quaint plucking notes on the guitar, Helena beamed up to her as brightly as Myka did when she had no words to sing, but instead a tune to hum along to. In the bridge, Myka reached down and pulled Helena up and into her arms, swinging them both around in the same bopping way until Bing sang again.

The last chorus, Myka whispered to Helena’s ear, their cheeks flush against each other. “I’ve got a pocketful of dreams…” The song faded out and into the next, and their bop slowed to a sway. “Sam had so many dreams. So did I. So _do_ I,” she hushed, squeezing the woman in her embrace and nudging her cheek more firmly into Helena’s. “You are my dream.”

“And you are mine come true,” Helena whispered in return as they continued to sway.

~ ~ ~ ~

More weeks passed, and Helena read in the papers before handing them to Myka beside her in bed to read as well that Mr Dickinson had been arrested in suspicion for the murder of Nathaniel MacPherson.

Another week later, his name was cleared, and the police were back to being lost.

“They really never would have solved Christina’s murder,” Helena said to herself, accepting the fact at last, all those years later. Myka did not know what to say, or rather knew that there was nothing to say, and so took Helena’s hand atop the covers and squeezed it as they kept reading.

~ ~ ~ ~

Summer was ending, and the sun no longer brought sweltering heat to daily life. The sun still rose before Myka’s alarm bade her, and a few times she rose with it, enjoying in those extra minutes to simply watch Helena sleep beside her. Helena slept beside her more often now as eyes were not so focussed on them. A lot of the other woman’s own belongings now lived in Myka’s apartment as well, not just Helena herself. The second record player that had once sat mostly unused in Helena’s bedroom sat atop the chest of drawers near Myka’s wardrobe. Myka’s own wardrobe had been de-cluttered – not that it was anything but practical and organised before – and Helena had her own small section to hang coats and shirts that were discarded the night before but did not want to be crushed or crinkled under its own weight.

They had had the small conversations, but not the definitive one as yet, but it looked as if – should the gradual moving-in of Helena’s belongings continued – Helena would soon be moving in herself. The woman no longer had The Warehouse to keep her busy, nor Nathaniel, nor her plan; she was rather happy-go-lucky of late in spirit, waking each morning wondering what she would do with it. Come at least noon, she would be in Myka’s store helping her sort new arrivals and down a few cafes simply raving about Miss Bering’s selection of Edwardian-era novels, or books on Ancient Egypt, or whatever she heard some person muse of. She was advertising on legs, Myka would say.

“The best advertising,” Helena would quip.

“On the best legs,” Myka would add.

Helena was a part of Myka’s day to day life come the end of summer, and she very much enjoyed it. She would think of such enjoyments when she was awake before the rest of the street, before the rest of the room, head propped up on her bent elbow as she smiled wistfully down to the softly snoring Englishwoman. She would look at her face and see her gently fluttering eyelids. She would look at her chest and see the soft rise and fall, the big breaths before she rolled toward the curve of Myka’s body. She would look at how her hands wriggled across blankets to find her own hands or her arm to hold and bring closer.

She would see her hands, so elegant with reddened fingertips from years of sewing and weeks of grasping to Myka in sleep and wake, and be struck like lightning with the realisation that those kind hands, those there and reassuring hands, had killed men. Hands so sweet and delicate at times had been wracked with so much anger and hurt that they had fired a gun, _held_ a gun at all, or a knife or simply nothing, and killed. They were sweet hands. They were not evil hands. But they were sweet and sweetly dangerous hands.

Myka would entwine their fingers and lay back down next to Helena with their heads on the same pillow and close her eyes, holding hands.

They were loving hands, in every way hands could feel and express love, even if that love had driven them to kill.

~ ~ ~ ~

In the second month of fall (and a year since Helena had first stepped foot into Myka’s bookstore), Steve had been terribly excited to have Myka and Helena over to the café. As it turned out, he had convinced Leena that what the café needed was a piano. It wasn’t grand by any means, nor was it expensive which explained its not-always great sounding music. Myka had begged the ecstatic man to stop tinkering on the keys and stick with the coffee instead, allowing Helena to sit down at the instrument instead. She fiddled and crawled around and underneath it at times, somehow still remaining a part of whatever conversation the other three were having, and then soon she returned to sitting at it, and began to play.

A jolly tune, a repeating over and over of the first bar, softer and softer until presumably she reached the chorus, and then she picked up. Myka smiled and Steve cooed behind her as he leaned down to the counter and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “Nina,” he hummed adoringly, and Helena smiled, but continued her intense concentration on the keys as they grew more intricate and melodic. She bopped from side to side, much like Myka did whenever she performed for her. One foot on the peddles, and the other tapping along in what was assumed to be the drum beat.

Gradually, as the intensity and joy in the tune built, Helena’s bopping from side to side grew into a nod forward towards the keys, first with her head and then her entire body, and before Myka could see it coming, the Englishwoman’s loving hands were hitting the keys with such rhythm and passion that she found herself smiling brightly and in awe. As the peak of the bridge arrived, Helena suddenly flicked her head back, her own back arching before curving in again and finishing the final chorus.

The song ended, Leena applauded and Steve joined in. Myka of course did as well, and crossed to the other woman perched at the piano, slightly out of breath, and sat down next to her. “I had no idea that you could play.”

“Only that song. Just for my baby,” Helena puffed, indeed out of breath.

“Christina loved it?”

“She did,” Helena smiled. “But so did you.”

“I just care for you,” Myka winked, referencing the song just played, but not at all missing the opportunity to tell Helena again and again, over and over just as she had every day that summer and fall, then into winter and spring, and all over again, that she loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? x sorry for the hella late upload as well guys!!! Some family stuff took precedence.


	27. TWENTY-SEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last proper chapter before a small epilogue to tie it all up. Enjoy folks!

**December 23 rd 1947**

It was a cold day. Bleak and uneventful, Myka had tried to push aside what of her belongings she still could so that she had room for her small plastic tree. “I wanted a real one this year,” she had muttered as she’d looked about her apartment the week before. Over-crowded with boxes of books, some that she felt she would not get to until the next year – but knew that she had to make room for _by_ the new year – there was simply no more room left in her home for anything but books. That gorgeous room divider that Helena had purchased long ago in hopes that Myka might use it one day, had been used but only for a short while until the books flooded in.

Advertising on legs was doing far better than Myka could have hoped for. She needed to expand, or somehow find a way to fit even more in her tiny store which was not a plan made easy after she had foolishly been unable to find Claudia a birthday present a month or so before, and so had pitched the idea of the young musician busying her time with a small nook in Myka’s store, specifically for records. It was a brilliant idea at the time, and Claudia had actually cried at the offer, but now the idea was seeming less and less feasible with what space she indeed had to work with.

And so, two days before Christmas, Myka was setting up a cheap department store Christmas tree in a small corner of her living room that she hopefully wouldn’t forget about and run into should she need to cross from her bed to the bathroom in the middle of the night. “I wanted a real tree for our first Christmas together, Helena. But I’ve ruined it.”

“No, Myka,” Helena cooed, kneeling down to the floor where Myka had slumped to her knees a moment before. “This tree is… delightful, and it really doesn’t matter.”

“Why?” Myka asked, worried that the year-before-to-the-date’s event was about to occur. It was wrong of her to think that Helena was going to break up with her again whenever she was on edge and Helena was calmly frowning at something. Sometimes it was simply that they had run out of milk, and Myka’s head – or rather her perhaps a little hypochondriac heart – would jump to bitter and not at all happening conclusions.

“We could have a real tree with tinsel and baubles, or a plastic one with two lonely stockings,” she paused and looked up at the tree with said two lonely stockings hanging from it. “Or no tree at all. It doesn’t matter to me. All I want for this Christmas and every one of my life that follows it is to spend it with you, wherever we are in the world and surrounded by whatever manner of tree.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am very sure, and very happy with our stockings,” Helena said with a smile before leaning in to press a sweet kiss to Myka’s nervously-nibbled lips.

“The fact still remains that I have no room,” Myka whined afterwards.

“Which leads me incidentally to your Christmas Eve present…” Helena began. Myka straightened her back in an instant, bringing her fingertip to the other woman’s lips.

“Not yet. Christmas Eve is tomorrow.”

“I am aware, Myka,” Helena managed behind the fingertip still pressing to her. “But you see, this isn’t really a gift I could wrap to put under the tree, so I was thinking that it could be an ‘any day’ sort of present instead.”

Myka paused, her suspicious eyes narrowing in on Helena. “Go on…”

“Last year at about this time, I…” She swallowed thickly, and pursed her lips to breathe out slowly. “I left you.” Myka didn’t say a thing, nor did she nod; only listened. Helena looked to her watch as she continued. “In about four hours, it will be six years since Christina died.”

“Oh…”

“And so for today, as it is a bittersweet day with historically more bitter than sweet, and your apartment,” she laughed and sniffled. “Is tragically yet beautifully overgrown with books, and my lease is about up, I was wondering…” Helena paused as tears grew in her eyes, a smile on her face. Myka took her hands in her lap. “I was wondering if you would like to look for a bigger apartment that we might live in together?”

Ordinarily, Myka would take a step back and evaluate the offer and all the practicalities that had to go into such a hefty decision, and yet, as she sat looking at the woman she loved, it was as all things in regard to _them_ were to forever be.

“I would love to,” Myka said before a sniffle of her own.

How much could she afford for an apartment with Helena? What would the world need to believe of two women living together? What would become of her store, and would she be able to afford both it and a new home? What if… a great many thing!

But of course, none of those great many or few things would matter, would _ever_ matter as long as it was them. As long as she was with Helena and it was the two of them solving puzzles and saving the day, writing love letters to each other and to the world of people like them, creating, making, loving, dreaming; as long as it was Myka and Helena, forever meant to be, then they would be…

They would be everything that they had ever hoped or dreamed to be.

~ ~ ~ ~

Once the plan to move in together and somewhere new was solidified – in the form of Myka writing down the details and facts from both parties so that they knew everything that they needed to going forward – they told their friends. Pete and Amanda were obviously excited for them, but with a lingering hint of worry in all of their interactions. Myka wished that they wouldn’t worry so much, but after all she and Helena were two women in a relationship moving in together in a city and in a world that did not deem them worthy of existing at the best of times, so it was understandable.

Steve was practically relieved, continuously remarking on how he thought it would never happen, while Leena could only utter how it was all she’d ever hoped would happen. Claudia was enthused, but more so because of the connecting fact that Myka was indeed keeping her store, and would be turning the upstairs into another level. Claudia was convinced that the entire level would be hers to house multitudes of records in. Myka was adamant that it would not come to that, and instead the young hopeful would have but a corner.

It was well into the new year when Helena turned up to the store with Artie and another friend of his named Adwin Kosan. The man was in the business of construction for that was all he was able to get a job in, and was wanting to branch out from the creation of buildings to the alterations of them instead. Myka was perplexed as to the man’s presence, but once Helena explained that it would be terribly confusing and only minorly troublesome – yet to a customer, the _most_ troublesome – to have to exit the store and re-enter via the bottle-green door to head upstairs, and so they should alter the entrance and staircase so that it was a rather all-in-one store, Myka was equally as thrilled as the others in the conversation.

It cost a fair chunk of money to pull off, but once the feat was completed, and Myka’s landlord was mildly impressed with the added worth to the property (Myka could tell he was very delighted by the prospect) all that needed to be done was to find more bookshelves. Claudia insisted on tagging along to the antique markets and fairs that Chicago had to offer, but was sure to keep a step behind the other two women when necessary or wanted. She didn’t tell them, but she was constantly scanning the rooms they walked through for anyone spying on them, or taking particular disgusted interest in any of their more familiar interactions. Claudia was guarding them as best as her little legs and jaded perception of the world could offer.

In relation to antiques, Myka’s wall divider remained at the store, moved instead to cordon off the kitchen from customers. While Steve and Leena’s was always homely to venture for lunch, they still had to pay money, and all were back into a shift of penny-pinching. Claudia always had been and so it was a natural habit, but both Helena and Myka knew that they had to reign in any of their expenditures for another while until the store turned a profit after its renovations.

And so it was that when winter ended and spring arrived, children went back to school and did not need to study for a while. They did not need to visit Myka’s store for the books of Plato or marine biology that she had, but did visit Myka’s store to enjoy the new wave music played upstairs in Claudia’s nook, and to enjoy said music in a few overstuffed, bargain buy antique sofas pushed into the corners, or in the ones downstairs by the fire with books that didn’t require they think as much.

Helena did always like interrupting the teenagers that were reading of history still, or the early science fiction novels to understand their understanding of such things, to challenge their perceptions and make them think just as much as studying demanded. “But morally,” she would insist as Myka begged she leave them alone to not overwork their minds. “To challenge how they see the world and how they can read of great wars and do all that is in their power… and their power is knowledge… to not let them happen again! We are moulding young minds here, Myka!”

In those moments where Helena worked at her store more than she did, where Helena _moulded young minds_ and recommended other books that would do so more, Myka could see in the other woman a mother. She could see how she must have interacted with little Christina all those years ago. She could see their wordless conversations through exasperated hand gestures and hear their use of over-complicated sentence structures that no doubt Christina would try to repeat back to her mother. She would see in Helena another time of her, what she was like and had hoped to remain like for much longer, but had been taken from her.

She saw in Helena the life before the plan, and was coolly thankful for the change that brought their plans together so that she may see even a hint of that former one. It was a shame when Myka was seeing these things that there remained people in her store, and that upstairs was no longer a quick escape for a long embrace between them, so she needed to save it. Back to paperwork with a soft smirk on her lips, the echo of Helena’s far-too-enthused voice in the background and she would look towards that evening when they would arrive back to their apartment another half dozen blocks towards the city centre.

The door would be closed, the hall light switched on and coats discarded. Helena would shake the day’s posture from her shoulders and slump with a huff, and Myka would beam at her as she brought her into her arms. Practically the entire length of a sunshine-day would pass between them as they shared the same room and yet they were not allowed to touch or hold each other. Those first moments back in their apartment, in their hallway, with their arms wound tightly and loosely around each other at the same time, were a needed therapy for their hearts and souls come sundown.

“How was your day?” Myka would ask even though she had watched such a day pass in front of her own eyes.

“I do believe I have inspired a future philosopher,” Helena would say as she led the way to the kitchen, turning lights on as she went.

They would smile at each other and talk as if they had not indeed seen each other practically every minute of that long day, because at times it was as if their days were terribly different. Claudia’s was always the same, she’d say. “Great, but those poor fools don’t know the power of a hand-held vibrato.”

“Does anyone but you?” Myka would retort. Not yet, they didn’t. Not for another couple of years…

Nights were kind to them and the wind whispered its protection to them through the cracks in their windowsill as they curled around each other under covers. Myka had a room across the hall that she kept her clothes in and that she slept in when sick, but otherwise she slept with Helena in her room, in theirs. They were safe there, they were warm and happy there, and most of all they were together there and free to be in love.

~ ~ ~ ~

**March 1948**

“Pete,” Myka began as her partner and his were in the kitchen of the dubbed ‘Bering and Wells’ apartment washing up. “I hate to be a pest.”

“You never are, Mykes,” he said without looking up from the paper.

“But… would it be ever so troublesome for us to request that Helena and I not sit together at the wedding reception?” she smiled in grimace afterwards as he looked up, knowing that Amanda had indeed already planned the seating arrangements and sent the final plan into the venue.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit together?”

“At the same table, of course, but we have both muddled nervously over the idea for a few weeks now. Amanda’s father will not be the only policeman at the event,” she stated.

“He will not.”

“His junior will be there.”

“He will,” Pete said with a knowing twist of his lips. Detective Clark’s junior was a nice enough policeman, a recently promoted one at that. At a time, less than a year before, however, he had been a senior officer on a murder case that was never solved. During said case, he interviewed both Helena and Myka and assisted in closing a club of _sin and perverse nature_ , the papers stated. The case was of Nathaniel MacPherson’s murder, and so now both women decided that it would be best for them to limit as much direct interactions with each other as possible for the entirety of the day.

They could manage it easily, but being seated next to each other at the reception might make it a little more difficult than need be. In all truth, it was Myka who was the more nervous, or at least she had assumed she was, but one night a week or so before, she had woken to the rustle of silent crying under a bed sheet beside her. Helena had woken and overthought more than was good for her, leading her to the intense worry that one mere glance between the two women in a room of near a hundred people with one suspicious cop would be their undoing.

“We can change it, Mykes. It’s alright,” Pete said, reaching across the edge of the table to hold his best friend’s hand. “I’m simply glad that you’ll both be there.” He smiled and his lips went tight against each other. If the lighting had been any better, she swore that she’d be able to see the tears that were most definitely in his eyes. “I love you, Myka.”

“Love you, Pete.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Amanda looked gorgeous as she walked down the aisle. Myka tried her best not to cry too much; she wanted to take in the atmosphere and its decorations. She wanted to take in how bright the bride’s smile was and how the rose in her cheeks was reflected in the roses that lined her path to love – Myka had secured them for her and also given Hugo a better pay day than he was ever getting at the markets alone. She blinked profusely in hopes that her vision may clear, but to no avail, so turned in her seat to grab a handkerchief from her purse.

A few dabs and she was right as rain, looking up briefly to Pete before her eyes wandered back to Amanda and her oh-so-proud father by her side. Her eyes locked on Pete’s for a moment as he gazed down the aisle at his love, and she saw something for a moment that she had only heard directed at her before from his own mouth.

He was glowing. He had tears in his eyes and a smile so soft and genuine that it looked as if he had been waiting for that day his entire life. Thinking back in her memories, on the small hand touches and gentle gazes to each other, heartbeats of time that he and Amanda shared that Myka was lucky to witness; they were much alike hers and Helena’s little moments, and she saw in herself how she felt that she had waited her entire life to meet Helena, and so had no doubt that the smile on Pete’s face was showing exactly that.

Both bride and groom made it through the ceremony without crying. Helena wished that she could say the same. She had practically been weeping from the moment she had awoken that morning. Myka had been in her arms, nestled into her side and breathing out warmly to her neck. “A day for love,” she had whispered to herself, and despite the knowledge that she and Myka would be at best separated by at least one other person the entire day, she was glad to spend it at least in the same room as her.

One day, she was sure, they would be able to enjoy a wedding not at all separated by the breadth of another human being’s shoulders or words or perspective. One day, she would be able to be in a room of love and hold Myka’s hand at the very least, and such a _very least_ would mean the very most to her.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was perhaps a wise decision to have Myka across the table entirely, for that allowed Helena time to actually converse with Steve for a change. She had shared many a conversation with him before and had quite a lot in common with him she had discovered, but had rarely been afforded the time to talk with him without Myka in the conversation as well. “No one at all?” she asked, and he slumped in his seat, kneading the napkin in his lap, twisting it and pushing it away before pulling it back to wrestle with again.

“It’s… complicated,” he only offered.

“I’m well aware of many a complication, Steve, but you are young and intelligent. Capable of giving so much love with your honest heart,” Helena insisted. She placed a hand over his in his lap, stilling his movements of torture on the napkin. “You deserve to have happiness and love with a man.”

He smiled and sighed, closing his eyes to shield perhaps some amount of teary emotion. To hear someone say in those words that he was deserving of the love he craved and wanted, and not just with a theoretical _someone_ but with a man, was freeing. “Thank you. I would be honoured to find even a slither of the happiness you and Myka share,” he whispered, for their entire conversation – although in a room of bustling and drunk voices – was in such a hushed tone.

“I tell you what, I would have been honoured with such a slither as well, but then I realised that I had found a person that I was meant to be with, and she offered me all the love that I had ever dreamed of. You, too, will find that person, Steve. I am sure of it.” Helena nodded with conviction to sell her point, and it seemed to have been bought for Steve smiled at her for a fraction of an instant far wider and cheerier in hope than she had ever seen on the man before.

She supposed in that moment that loving Myka as a person was only part of loving Myka as a whole, in some way. To love Myka was to love her friends, and as she looked at Steve, placing the napkin onto the table, looking out to the dance floor and around the room with new eyes, hopeful eyes, she loved him too.

Across the table, keeping the champagne bottle to her right side, a good arm’s length from Claudia at her left side, Myka smiled at Helena as she smiled at Steve. None need know that their individual happiness was bringing another happiness as well, and it was sweet to see such joy shared. Of course, she was aware that the look she was receiving by one only slightly drunk techie musician was not of love and adoration, but rather scorn and deceit.

“You’ve already had two glasses in the last half hour, Claud. I am not being responsible for any sloppiness that takes place when you leave here with someone,” that someone being Leena, and oh how Myka felt terrible for the impending drunken and flirtatious mess of one Miss Donovan, “but while you are still here and the cake has yet to be cut, I shall limit your… development.”

“I…” Claudia began, closing her eyes and rolling her head around for simply her eyes would not have been enough. “Have no idea what you just said.”

“No more alcohol until the cake is cut, is what I said,” Myka repeated in more basic terms. Claudia only scrunched her nose up disapprovingly, and turned back to her champagne glass that was filled with water instead. The night was still young, and Myka had yet to catch Helena’s eye across the table as she stood to excuse herself to find a restroom.

~ ~ ~ ~

Two necessary and three unnecessary trips to the ladies’ room later, the cake had been cut and so Steve and Leena were in charge of Claudia now while Myka made her way around the room, passing Helena on occasion and brushing arms as they hovered near each other for a moment. At one point of the evening where the room was split between winding down and only just beginning the true party, they were left by their respective conversational partners in lieu of refreshing drinks or joining in on the dancing, and so Helena and Myka were standing relatively near each other in a corner of the room.

“Surely, one conversation wouldn’t arouse suspicion,” Myka said as she stepped over to the other woman.

“We are friends after all,” Helena welcomed, reaching out to kindly run her hand down the length of Myka’s arm and letting go before their hands touched. “Steve is having a better night, I see.”

“If by better, you mean stuck yet again with tipsy Claudia but smiling about it for a change? Then, yes, he does.”

“Well, I only say this because I was talking with him earlier about how he hasn’t had someone for a long while. I’ve never seen him with anyone,” Helena said. “Have you?”

“The odd boy, but never beyond a coffee one morning after. I suppose he finds love in friendship with Leena and Claudia enough.”

“Did you?” Helena asked.

“I did until I met you,” Myka said, quirking her head softly to the side with a smile that was just for Helena.

“So, maybe Steve simply hasn’t met the right chap.”

“Maybe…” Myka said, entirely sure of how hard it was to find the right someone when it was illegal to find anyone at all.

As they stood looking across the room, both deep in thought and potentially plotting something, they barely registered the figure approaching them until he was greeting them. “Miss Bering, Miss Wells,” the officer said. Well, the detective now.

“ _Detective_ Napier,” Helena said in her best enthused voice.

“Thank you,” he said kindly, and Myka remembered that about him. He was kind, and gentle, and would probably have that stripped of him in place of bitterness the longer he stayed a police officer. “And do call me Liam. I’m not working right now.”

“Liam,” Myka said with a smile. “How’s your evening been?”

“Alright, I suppose,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I don’t really know anyone here. Apart from Detective Clark and _Mrs Lattimer_ , you two are the only familiar faces, I’m afraid.”

“That’s…” Helena began, but got lost in her attempts to find a positive answer.

“Rather sad, I know. But I actually…” he began, before pausing himself and shaking his head. “Forgive me.”

“Mr Napier?” Helena prompted.

“That man at your table, your friend?”

“Yes,” Myka answered. “What about him?”

“Again, I don’t really know anyone. Here or in general, and I am aware of how truly sad that makes me sound.”

“Not at all, Mr Napier,” Helena said.

“Liam, really,” he insisted.

“Liam. Many people I know prefer the company of themselves to others. To good books and markets,” she said, looking up to Myka.

“Oh, it’s not that. Although I do like a good Oscar Wilde…” Helena and Myka shared a look. “I don’t know anyone because I don’t much have the nerve to talk to anyone.”

“But… our friend…” Myka returned to.

“He looks like someone I might like to know,” Liam finished.

“Oh,” and again Myka’s and Helena’s eyes met. “Well,” Myka continued, feeling as if conversations and thoughts of the night shared by many a person in their friendship circle had perhaps led to that moment where Mr Wilde was mentioned and Liam had appeared out of the figure of a policeman that they once feared. “His name is Steve, and I’m sure he would very much like to get to know you as well.”

~ ~ ~ ~

**June 1948**

If possible, it was hotter than the year before. The air seemed to sit and sink into their skin even heavier than it ever appeared to, but perhaps that was because in a bed that was once barely shared, the cool of sheets offering refuge, limbs were now tangled and breaths mingled. No cool air stood a chance of coming in between them.

Helena looked down to the woman tucked in at her side, clinging to her about as tightly as an orangutan in a tree might; not that tightly at all in retrospect, but her hands grasped to her as the remainder of her body lay limpid. The woman’s curls were barely touching the pillow, her entire self somehow further down the bed than she had obviously started at hours ago, her nose pressed to the side of Helena’s body. It must have been an especially enticing spot to nuzzle into, Helena smiled, for the side of her own breast was coolly pressing to Myka’s forehead.

The sun was rising further in the sky, casting its warm rays into the apartment through thin curtains of mauve. It was time to get up, even if it was a Sunday. Helena moved her hand against Myka’s back, feeling the twitch of her spine as muscles began to awaken and stretch. Her arm was draped around where Myka’s shoulders had been before she had slithered down to the Englishwoman’s side, and was now more able to reach down and caress the length of a back.

Myka rolled her face into the mattress, squinting as the bare day’s light felt even too harsh, then turned her face upwards and into the soft of that breast again, a smile blossoming on her lips. “Morning,” she mumbled through sleepy and stretched lips.

“Good morning, my love.” Gradually, Myka made her way up to the pillow she had once resided on, leaving in the wake of her trail feathery kisses under warm breath to the equally warm skin she passed. Again on her pillow, she finally let out a yawn and closed her eyes and she nestled back in. “Sleepy, are we?”

“You did a good job of keeping me up last night,” was Myka’s response.

“You didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you quite enjoyed it.”

“You know I did,” she smiled, and Helena smiled as well, very much aware of how their conversation – if heard by another set of unknowing ears – might sound, might seem to imply. “I was glad to finally finish _Wuthering Heights_ , though.”

“As was I. It had a different sound to its tale when read aloud.”

“Thank you for reading it to me,” Myka said.

“Thank you for asking me to.”

It had grown a rhythm in their little household, a rhythm to the reading, where each would read a book individually, and then once finished and given a few days away from the story, they would read it to each other. Sometimes Helena did all the reading, sometimes Myka did, or sometimes they took it in turns when the dialogue was heavy or the vocabulary far too lengthy for one tired mouth to manage on consecutive nights. This time around, Helena read _Wuthering Heights_ over the course of a week. It was a romance of sorts, but a twisted one, and so when reading aloud, they paused many a time to discuss perceptions, or motives for the characters and if they were just or believable.

It most likely seemed like an awfully tedious expedition to the outside world, even to other avid readers, but to them, perspective and the understandings of each side of a story was important. Of course, there were some stories where a side did not deserve to be heard or understood because there was no just reasoning for any act or belief, but then again, neither woman much wanted to dive into such stories at all.

“What did you want to do today?” Myka asked after a while. There was also a habit in her day in those very first few minutes where she would let her eyes open as they pleased, and she would smile, for her eyes always saw Helena immediately. It had been a blissful six months of waking up in her shared bed in her shared apartment to see Helena with arms around her. Sometimes the other woman was smiling down at her, sometimes she was still asleep. That morning, she was looking towards the window where there was a piece of sky breaking through.

“A walk might be nice in this weather.”

“A picnic?”

“With a good book,” Helena said.

“How about Alice?”

“For today? She is perfect for today.”

Both women knew what the day was. That hot night in the summer of the year before, where a man was murdered, and a story was told again, listened to again and understood anew; it was a year to the day that Myka had worn her satin red dress and later that night, after a day of dropping it to her own bedroom floor, dropped it to Helena’s before crawling into bed with her because they were going to try. They were going to fall into each other and never fall again because in that moment, they were holding each other with wounds so alike that it was easy to comfort each other and even easier to mend each other afterwards as they could barely manage to do for their own selves.

In that moment, they had fallen, and they had caught each other, so that they need never have to fall again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling?? Thoughts? x


	28. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, epilogue, everything for this story! I really hope you have all enjoyed what I've written and wherever in your lives this story has found you that it has meant something to you and you've been able to escape for a time while living in it. I know it was for me <3

**October 1961**

“Dinah Dickens, would you mind?” It was really Steve who had finally decided on the name five years before. Dinah Dickens was a black cat with the odd white spotting that had shown up at the store’s front door one fall morning. Neither Helena nor Myka were really what were considered ‘cat people’ and yet on that cold day, there had appeared a little cat on the sidewalk outside the store. It seemed unlike other cats or animals, not scratching at the windows or door to get out of the obvious chill, instead choosing to find a slight spot of sun to warm itself in for as long and as well as that would manage.

While it sat, it would occasionally look up to the glass where two dark-haired women stopped to peer out to it, a forlorn look on their faces. It appealed to their compassion in the end, and the door was soon opened for it. Little feet carried it in out of the leaves and off the growing-icy concrete, and then up to the windowsill where sun streamed in but wind did not. In the following weeks, such a daily occurrence became routine for all until the first snow arrived one afternoon, and so Myka used an old box that once delivered books to create a make-shift bed for their new pet, setting it by the died-out fire for the night.

The cat soon got a proper little bed and water bowl, then a bowl for food as well for Helena had worked that into their budget as well. It had become a part of the family in no time, and yet it still did not have a name. Helena called it ‘dearie’ quite often, whilst Myka stuck with ‘cat,’ but then when the Christmas break was approaching and both women were loathe to leave the cat to its self over the winter months – that were even colder than the year before – it was brought home with them to their apartment, and given a spot in the corner of the living room by the archway to the kitchen.

“I suppose it should get a name?” Helena had asked one evening as they sat by the fire reading, said cat resting at Myka’s feet.

“She should…”

“Dickens,” Helena suggested, for she was reading indeed that man.

“Or Dinah?” Myka asked with a soft smile, referring to Alice’s cat. Both left it at that, deciding to think it over and most likely go with whatever settled more naturally over the coming days. Helena returned to her book, and Myka smiled at her softly. No, neither were much cat people, and yet there they were with their cat being a happy little family.

They had both spoken often of Christina over the years, talking of the general idea of children as well. Helena noted that she loved being a mother, but that it was just that: a past tense ideal. Of course, she would always be a mother, but not in practical form, and did not want to be again. Only ever for her darling Christina. This fact suited Myka quite fine, as it turned out, for she didn’t much ever see motherhood in her future. As it also turned out, having a cat was that happy medium between having another family member and not having to commit to looking after and raising a being, for a cat raised itself.

Over the next few days, the women referred to the cat in their respectively chosen names until one day Steve overheard their discrepancies, and pulled them up on it. “After all this time, you have decided to give her a name, but oh, not just that. You’ve given her two!”

“We couldn’t decide,” Myka meekly admitted.

“So why not, for the flare of the household and store in which she inhabits,” Steve began, catching both women’s indeed flared attention. “Do you call her by both all in one? Miss Dinah Dickens, pet to the Bering and Wells house.”

And so it stuck.

“This is not a toy, and you are privileged at the best of times to interact with the machine at all, Madam Dickens,” Claudia pronounced most fancifully.

“Is she playing on the turntable again?” Steve asked as he rounded the top of the stairs. Dinah Dickens was, on the odd occasion, allowed to sit on the turning turntable _when_ there was no record playing. However, at that moment, Claudia had been beginning to play a new record, and did not much appreciate the cat swatting and attempting to mount the turning device.

“She does not appreciate Gene Pitney, me thinks,” Claudia offered, picking up the cat much to her slight annoyance and voicing of such annoyance before being placed to the floor. Free of distractions and cause for alarm, Claudia pinched up the needle and placed it down again at the edge, ready to play it over as Steve settled into one of the oversized chairs.

“New record?”

“Ish. I have a feeling about one of the lines…”

“A vibe like Pete?”

“Please,” Claudia said, turning to extend her flattened hand to her friend in protest. “Never say that to me again.” Steve laughed and the song began, instantly stirring in him a feeling of deep emotion, although not entirely sure which one it was.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was a rare October day. Quiet. An outlier in the general chaos of the days of late, and so Myka was not feeling any manner of stress or worry, simply the calm that such a day afforded she bask in. Helena had taken the opportunity to pop out to make and secure some arrangements, and possibly return either twenty minutes later, or not at all. If that was the case, she would meet Myka at home and inform her then of all the details involved for their first overseas holiday together.

England.

Many a time they had escaped to the mountains, or even had a bit of a road trip interstate. They had spent New Years of nineteen-fifty-seven in New York quite randomly and enjoyed every slightly drunken moment of it. Now, it was time – as Myka had done many a time with her love over the years – to return home and see what had changed, what had stayed the same, what she remembered, and who remembered her. There was no guarantee that they would see Charles, but Myka supposed that that was one of the things Helena was perhaps enquiring and securing that day.

For the blissful day ahead of her, with the distant echoes of Claudia berating her cat upstairs, she sat and read for herself. The distant echoes of practically childish giggles were also heard, before the ostentatious and well-informed debate over some literary work began again from the couches at the fire.

Mrs Calder and Artie. The woman still attended her book club at Myka’s store every Wednesday; now with less original members and more new ones. On other days, she would simply come in alone to read, and more often than not, Artie would simply happen to arrive as well, and they would awkwardly greet each other the same way in front of an equally awkward Myka before excusing themselves to the rear of the store to read the day away, less alone than previously planned.

Claudia had imagined that these coincidental and completely accidental happenings were “old people versions of dates,” to quote the young woman. Myka would agree, she was not entirely wrong, but to quell the excited hums and commenting on every page-turn, she would insist that Claudia catalogue her records more efficiently instead. A much better use of her time, and a suggestion by Myka offered daily as she knew for a fact that Claudia never did catalogue at all. She would edge her way in and happen upon a record that she hadn’t properly listened to yet, or missed and wanted to relive, and so the rest of her cataloguing time was spent listening and dissuading the cat from riding the record upon the turn table.

Steve was over more of late as well, for he was wondering if the whole misfit family that was them might combine even more so. Leena and Claudia were wanting to move in together as well, leaving Steve to pay rent on the apartment above the coffee shop alone, which he didn’t mind, but also did in a way. It made him think, and thoughts of, “customers always wish that they could sit with a coffee and read,” or, “a lady came in today for a pot of tea with a book that she had just bought from you, Myka, just so that she could read it as she drank,” led him to wonder if the kitchen upstairs in Myka’s old apartment might be used more frequently by himself and Leena. A few small tables, a decent coffee table for the over-sized chairs, and his coffee machine later and they would all be – apart from Pete and Amanda, but there was really no way to fit a sports coach into the building – working under the same roof.

Steve was over more of late, because he was essentially redecorating the mess that Claudia had created upstairs. To the outside eye, it was a crafted look of chic and new-age rock, but to Myka it was a mess, and she was glad to hear that Steve wanted to shuffle some things around, occasionally aided by _close friend_ Liam.

As Myka was settling into her chair, leaning back in it to open a romance novel – practically the only one she re-read and enjoyed several times over since its publication almost a decade before – that was not at all really about salt or other common kitchen spices and what they cost, she began to smile quite naturally and unknowingly. She was five chapters in and had just read the line that made the whole novel. Helena wasn’t from out of space, even though to Myka she seemed rather heavenly and other-worldly, but she did have the moon and all her stars twinkling in her eyes and mirrored in the freckles on her skin.

“Why are you smiling?” she heard from the footsteps that stomped down the stairs. Claudia. She had Dinah Dickens in one arm and a record in the other, and while the cat looked most comfortable and pleased with herself, Claudia apparently was not. “When your child has just scratched my turn table?”

“Not a record?” Myka asked, closing her book around the envelope with Helena’s handwriting on it that she used as a bookmark.

“No, thankfully,” Claudia said as she bent down to kindly drop the guilty and not-at-all guilty cat. “Talking of,” she began again, standing and outstretching her arm. “I got this record and think that you might like it.”

Myka took it and looked at the cover. Gene Pitney. “There’s a movie of this.”

“Just been released in America. This song was written for it,” Claudia explained. “The movie is pretty dark and horrid, but there’s a line in the song that I think you and Helena will… feel.”

“Feel?” Myka asked, a curious smirk on her lips.

“Steve listened to it, and he said he felt it too.”

“We shall listen to it after dinner.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Roast and vegetables was on the menu, and Helena with her weary legs and lighter purse wiped the plate clean. Such weary legs left Myka to clean up by herself, but it wasn’t half bad as long as it was to the weary tune of Helena grumbling about such legs. When all was done, and harsher lights need not be left on, Myka crossed to the living room and placed the record on the turn table.

“Claudia said there was a line in this that we might like.”

“Oh?” Helena asked.

“Actually, she said that we might _feel_ it, so let’s give it a go.” She sat down on the couch, taking Helena’s legs into her lap so that she may massage them, be tender with them and feel them as she felt the lyrics. As the tune built and carried, she moved her hands against supple skin in time with the beats, the lyrics, the way she felt because of it all. She kneaded and pressed at Helena’s sore muscles, closing her eyes as she began to slip away into the turning of the record, and then she heard it, felt it, and her eyes opened.

_Ours is not an easy age…_

There was more to the song in its entirety, but that line. Their era of living, much like every era that had been and every era that was… their physical age, but the age in which they existed was never easy, was never kind, had refuge in small amounts like the endless wonder of a club or the safe and healing words of a book, the love of another person or the plans that bound them all together…

Theirs was not an easy age and they were stuck. But they fought and thrived, lived and dreamed, took eager lips and held fast, savoured the joy for as long as it would last.

Under her hands, Myka felt Helena tapping her foot along and in another time, in another listen, they would be pushing furniture around so that they could dance and move to the music, drop to the floor with earnest at the beckoning of the music, and love each other. But in that time, Myka grabbed Helena’s ankles and dragged her down towards her before slumping to her side and settling into her, sharing the small breadth of the couch.

The song finished too soon, and that line was still living in them. Their hands stilled but held, and their chests rose and fell as they breathed each other and the new silence in, only the soft scratch of the needle continuing.

“I like it,” Helena said.

“Me too.”

“What’s it called?”

Myka shifted her head against Helena’s shoulder, looking to her cheek until deep eyes came down to meet her. “Town Without Pity.”

~ ~ ~ ~

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final time... thoughts? Thanks guys, so much! x

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's Helena obvs and it's only the first chapter but, thoughts? x


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